


Giselle

by barbitone



Series: Captive Prince Fanfiction [20]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, Canon Typical Warnings, Dancing, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, POV Ancel (Captive Prince), Pining, Slow Burn, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22578610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbitone/pseuds/barbitone
Summary: After getting scouted by Berenger from the De Vere ballet company, Ancel is determined to finally get the lead the only way he knows how- relentless calculated seduction.Berenger proves resistant to Ancel’s romantic overtures, but somehow gives him the lead anyway. Ancel’s pretty sure that’s not how these things are supposed to work, but soon he has bigger things on his mind than stuffy old Berenger. He’s dancingGiselle.
Relationships: Ancel/Berenger (Captive Prince)
Series: Captive Prince Fanfiction [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1455904
Comments: 170
Kudos: 229





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclamer: I don't know shit about ballet
> 
> Huge shoutout to [Salt_Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salt_Queen/)! Thank you for betaing!!!
> 
> In case you're curious about Giselle, the ballet this fic will be focusing on-  
> Synopsis of Giselle: <http://radchenko-ballet.com/en/giselle/>  
> Giselle, Act II Photo: <https://todaytix.imgix.net/prod_1556725901762_giselleshow.jpg>  
> Full Ballet on Youtube: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpwpKY2T1eM>

* * *

“I’m going to fuck Berenger,” Ancel announced, setting his empty shot glass down on the bar with a decisive clink.

Nicaise snorted. “Good luck,” he muttered, stirring his martini with the olive speared on his plastic toothpick. Ancel was pretty sure Nicaise wasn’t even old enough to drink, but the bar he’d taken them to didn’t seem to card so maybe it didn’t matter.

“I’m going to fuck him,” Ancel insisted. “And then he’s going to give me the lead. I’m going to dance Giselle.”

Nicaise snorted again. “That’s not how it works. He never fucks anyone. And anyways- he’ll probably give the lead to Laurent like he always does.”

“So you haven’t heard?” Ancel asked gleefully, waving to the bartender to give him another shot. “Laurent is shacking up with Damianos. He’s planning on joining the Akielon company. They’re doing-” Ancel wrinkled his nose in distaste, _“-Romeo and Juliet.”_

Nicaise laughed, covering his face. “No,” he gasped. “Really? How… quaint.”

“Quaint,” Ancel repeated derisively. He would have said _derivative_ or _cliche._

He took the next shot- his third of the night- and waved for another. “-what do you mean he doesn’t _fuck.”_

That wasn’t how things worked. In Ancel’s experience, the roles were doled out to the dancers who were most willing to suck the director’s cock. “He’ll fuck _me._ That’s the only reason I’m even here. He waited for me for an hour out in the cold outside the stage door to give me his card. And I was just in the ensemble of Swan Lake.”

Nicaise shrugged. “He’s just… like that. He’s all. Proper.”

“Proper,” Ancel echoed, narrowing his eyes. He’d liked Nicaise since the first moment he saw him. Ancel had walked into rehearsal that first day a few weeks ago and Nicaise had looked him up and down and said- _“You look like a slut.”_

Ancel had said- _“You look like you’re too young to even know that word,”_ and a friendship of the ages had been struck. Nicaise wouldn’t lie to him. But that didn’t mean Nicaise knew everything.

“He’s a square,” Ancel clarified. He could work with that. He’d seduced plenty of squares before. Though it was admittedly easier with sleazebags like Louans, the director of Ancel’s previous company. 

“Sure,” Nicaise said with a nod. “But he’s still probably going to give the part to Erasmus. He’s been with De Vere longer than you, and he’s good.”

“Ugh,” Ancel said, picking up the next shot. He sipped it slowly for a change, knowing it would be his last of the night. They had rehearsal tomorrow and Berenger would be watching. Ancel couldn’t be hungover. Not painfully hungover, at least.

“Erasmus is a much better fit to play the virgin bride,” Nicaise continued. “If you’re lucky you might get the part of Myrtha, the jealous ghost queen.”

Ancel grimaced. “I don’t want to be the fucking ghost queen. I want to be the lead.”

Nicaise laughed, finally taking a sip of his martini. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

Ancel rolled his eyes. It wasn’t about _hopes._ It was about skill, and he was plenty skilled in all the ways that mattered.

* * *

Ancel arrived to the studio hours before anyone else, carefully going through his stretches and warmup exercises. The official auditions weren’t until the end of the week, but he knew how important these rehearsals were. And Berenger would be watching.

He made a good showing of it, if he did say so himself. Berenger was quiet throughout the whole thing, letting Orlant, the choreographer, lead the session while he stood in the corner with his arms crossed over his chest, watching. His gaze was intense and Ancel could practically feel it as he danced, something akin to shivering static settling heavy over his skin.

Nicaise was an idiot. Berenger wanted him and Ancel knew how to take that desire and forge it into something he could use.

The rehearsal came to an end. Berenger hadn’t said a single word throughout and left silently while Orlant gave them final notes. Ancel waited for the other dancers to file out before gathering his things and marching down to Berenger’s office, opening the door without knocking.

“Berenger,” he said, walking inside.

Berenger was wearing headphones as he watched something on his computer screen, jotting notes down in a small notebook. He looked over at the interruption, pausing the video and sliding his headphones down so they hung around his neck.

Ancel walked closer, exaggerating the swaying motion of his hips, and perched on the edge of Berenger’s desk. He knew what he looked like- flushed from rehearsal, strands of red hair escaping his high ponytail to frame his face. He looked freshly fucked, loose-limbed and limp with exhaustion, but vigorous and pleased all the same. He raised one slippered foot to rest on the seat of Berenger’s chair by his thigh, the position leaving him practically straddling his uptight director, his crotch enticingly on display.

“Ancel,” Berenger said smoothly. “Can I help you?”

“Oh yes,” Ancel purred, leaning in. “I think you can help me quite a bit. Have you given thought to the casting for Giselle?”

“I have,” Berenger said, his voice betraying nothing. For a brief moment Ancel felt annoyed before he let the feeling pass through him, leaving him calm once more.

“I want the lead.”

“I see,” Berenger said.

“I was wondering,” Ancel said mildly, letting his fingers drift over to Berenger’s shoulder. He was wearing his typical outfit, a black turtleneck with a boring brown jacket over it. Ancel let his fingers drag over Berenger’s shoulder to his neck, toying with the edge of his sweater. “Is there… _anything_ I could do to sway your mind in my favor?”

“You could do well in your audition,” Berenger said, his brown eyes cool as he lifted his hand to take Ancel’s wrist, pulling it away.

Ancel pouted, undeterred. “There are so many fine dancers in your company,” he tried again. “Surely there’s something I could do to stand out?” Berenger was still holding his wrist and _staring_ at him like he had no idea what Ancel was getting at. Did he need to be more obvious? He could do that.

He moved, elegantly, to slide the foot he had on Berenger’s chair up his thigh. Berenger’s eyes darkened- _victory!_

And then Berenger pushed his chair back and stood. “You can be the best,” he said coldly.

Ancel’s eyes widened. He felt like he’d been slapped in the face. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Was it possible that Berenger was straight…?

No.

No, that was ridiculous. He ran an all-male ballet company for fuck’s sake. Any straight man would have used the opportunity to surround himself with pretty ballerinas, and what had Berenger done? Surrounded himself with lithe young men in tights. He was gay. He had to be. He was gayer than Pride in L.A.

Maybe Ancel wasn’t his type. But that was ridiculous too- he was _everyone’s_ type. Berenger _wanted_ him. Berenger had picked him out of three dozen dancers! He’d waited in the cold, alone, for nearly an hour just for a chance to give Ancel his card. And ever since Ancel had joined his company, he’d barely gotten a second glance.

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t how these things _worked._

“Fine,” Ancel said curtly, standing too. Berenger could get fucked. Ancel would show him. He’d show all of them.

* * *

Ancel threw himself into rehearsals. He wasn’t exactly a slouch even on his worst days, but now he had a mission. _Be the best,_ Berenger had said. Ancel was going to make him eat those words.

Ancel _was_ the best. He was always the best. Just because he played the game didn’t mean he couldn’t dance. He could. He could dance better than anyone.

By the end of the week his whole body was aching, but he only pushed harder, harder, _harder-_

The audition came sooner than it should have. Ancel found himself uncharacteristically nervous as he stood before Orlant, the choreographer, Parsins, the conductor of the orchestra, and of course- Berenger.

Ancel had chosen to perform the solo at the end of the first act- Giselle going mad with grief before impaling herself on her lover’s sword. Parsins moved to turn on a CD player that was probably older than he was while Ancel met Berenger’s cold gaze as he waited. He felt suddenly bereft- robbed of what he was due.

Ancel knew he was beautiful. He knew Berenger wanted him, so why was he being so uptight and distant? It wasn’t fair. He’d left behind everything he knew on the off chance that Berenger’s company would be any better than the one before.

He felt cheated and lost _._ And then the music rose up and took him over, and so he danced. In the moment it didn’t feel like a performance, an audition. In the moment he felt like he really _was_ Giselle- tricked and forgotten, brokenhearted and forlorn. He could practically see the ghostly forms of the other dancers moving around him. He’d given so much of himself- _everything_ of himself- for ballet and a chance at greatness. And none of it had ever amounted to anything.

The hopefulness he’d felt for this new company fled all at once, and all he could do was keep dancing, throwing all of himself into it because this might be his last chance at dancing a solo- ever. Once this was over he’d find himself in the ensemble once again, and then again. Right up until he was too old for ballet and had to find a career elsewhere. He could make a living sucking cock, maybe. It was the only thing other than dancing he was good at.

Berenger pitied him, that was why he’d sought him out. Ancel pitied himself too.

He finished the dance and didn’t wait for feedback, storming out so he could sit on the steps of the studio and wrap his arms around his knees.

He wished for a cigarette, but he’d quit years ago.

“You were good,” Nicaise said, sitting down beside him.

“How would you know,” Ancel muttered, staring into a muddy puddle on the street. Auditions were private, it wasn't like Nicaise had seen.

“I know,” Nicaise said with a smirk, “because after you finished, Berenger came out into the hall and said auditions were over.” He nudged Ancel in the side with his painfully sharp elbow. “You were right. It’s going to be you.”

“It won’t be,” Ancel said moodily. “I’ll just be in the ensemble cast, like I’ve always been. Again and again and again.”

“You’ll see,” Nicaise said easily, stretching out his legs as he made himself comfortable.

Ancel looked over at him, wary.

Nicaise caught his look and grinned. “You’ll see,” he said.

* * *

The casting sheet went up two days later. Ancel nearly didn’t look at it, convinced that his name wouldn’t be on it.

But Nicaise dragged him over to look anyway and-

Ancel could hardly breathe.

_Giselle - Ancel Sanpelier_

It was too good to be true. But there it was, in black and white. He was dancing the lead. The _lead._ The lead! He laughed, dizzy and overwhelmed. The lead! He’d never danced the lead before!

“Congratulations, Red,” Lazar said from behind him and Ancel turned to him with a laugh, throwing his arms around him. Lazar picked him up with ease and spun him around a few times before setting him down.

“And to you,” Ancel said with a curtsy. “Count Albrécht.” Lazar had gotten the role of the male lead. It was almost too good to be true- Lazar was the perfect fit for the sleazy count.

“I’ve got the best role of all,” Nicaise announced proudly.

Ancel hadn’t even thought to check for Nicase- he’d seen his own name and his mind had gone blank. He jerked around to look at the casting sheet once more.

_Myrthe - Nicaise Belloy_

“You’re the baddest bitch,” Ancel said with a laugh.

“Of course I am,” Nicaise said, pointedly looking at his nails.

“Looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other,” Lazar said with a leer.

“Please,” Nicaise scoffed. “I’ll dance you to death, old man.”

“You’ll try,” Lazar said. “But my sweetheart will save me. Won’t you, Red?”

“My sweetheart is _fame,_ darling,” Ancel said with a smirk. And now he was one step closer to it.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Rehearsals started in earnest and Ancel didn’t think of anything else. Playing the lead was demanding, challenging. All the new choreography, the _solos._ He felt giddy just thinking about the solos. It was nothing like the drudgery of being in the ensemble, learning a few simple dances and being more concerned about synchronizing with the others, fading into the background and letting the leads shine, than actually _dancing._

This was like nothing else- it was exhilarating.

Orlant worked with the ensemble in the mornings, so Ancel relaxed his morning routine. Instead of waking at dawn and having a quick breakfast before rushing off, he rose at eight and went for a walk to wake himself up and get his muscles limber. He’d take an early lunch and get to the studio by twelve, at which point he’d spend a leisurely hour stretching and doing his warm ups.

Orlant would be ready to work with him by the time he finished, sometimes with Lazar or Nicaise, though just as often alone. And then it was hours and hours of practice until Orlant went home around dinner time. Ancel usually took a quick dinner alone, only to come back to the studio and practice late into the night.

This was his first lead role- he wasn’t going to fuck it up.

Two weeks passed like that and Ancel was lost to everything but the work. He was dancing Giselle. He was going to be the best damn Giselle the world had ever seen. Fuck the Russians and their Bolshoi, fuck the Royal Ballet- once he was finished, no one would even breathe the name Osipova again. Instead all the papers would rave about _Ancel Sanpelier._

It was inevitable that in his zeal, he was bound to overdo it.

It happened late at night, the studio empty as he practiced his solo from the first act. There were a few jumps that were a bit more advanced than what he was used to and he wanted to make sure he got them right. He was already exhausted by then and that must have been why he made the mistake.

He landed _off_ somehow, his ankle twinging sharply before he collapsed with a wince, hitting the ground hard. His knees ached from hitting the floor, and so did his wrists from how he’d landed, trying desperately to catch himself.

Ancel grabbed at his ankle with a sob, _hating_ himself. He was so stupid. What if he’d sprained it, or worse? What if he was out of commission for weeks and lost his role? And worse than all of it, he was alone. Could he even get home without putting weight on his ankle and making everything worse?

He let out a shuddering breath, desperately trying to hold back tears. He could crawl over to his bag maybe, get his phone and call- someone. He had no idea who he was supposed to call. Lazar? Nicaise? Would they even come this late?

“Ancel.”

Ancel looked up with a gasp to see Berenger in the doorway, walking closer with concern written over his features.

Fuck.

The only thing worse than being alone was being alone with _Berenger._ It was still early in rehearsals, early enough to recast the principals if it came to it. Ancel would be damned if stupid doe-eyed Erasmus got his part. He forced himself to wipe the pain off his face and smile as Berenger walked over and sank to his knees beside him.

“It’s nothing,” Ancel said flippantly and moved to stand, pain be damned. Berenger set a hand on his shoulder to stop him, his frown slipping into a full on scowl.

“If you want to keep your place in this company, you’ll never lie to me again.”

Ancel flushed at the rebuke and looked down. Berenger didn’t seem _angry,_ exactly. He definitely didn’t seem pleased. His hands were steady and gentle as he unlaced Ancel’s ballet slipper from his hurt foot. He carefully put his hand on Ancel’s ankle, the other cradling the arch of his foot.

“Does this hurt?” Berenger asked, gently checking his range of motion.

Ancel bit his lip and shook his head.

“Ancel,” Berenger said sternly.

“No,” Ancel said, not looking at him. “Really. It’s just- it aches. A little.”

Berenger nodded to himself and pulled his hands away. “It’s not sprained, or worse. But you shouldn’t put any weight on it just yet,” Berenger said decisively. “Put your arms around my neck.”

“What?” Ancel managed, looking over in confusion. 

“Ancel,” Berenger said, sounding exasperated. Ancel leaned closer and put his arms around Berenger’s neck. He felt one of Berenger’s arms at his back, the other sliding under his knees. Berenger stood, taking Ancel’s weight easily.

Oh.

Ancel flushed and hid his face against Berenger’s ugly brown jacket. He smelled of cologne and fresh linen, clean and welcoming.

Berenger walked slowly, his steps smooth as he took Ancel down the hall and into his office, setting him down gently on the couch.

“You shouldn’t practice so much,” Berenger said. There was a minifridge under his desk and he got some ice out of it, wrapping it in a spare tank top he took from his drawer. Ancel watched silently as Berenger knelt by the couch and wrapped the makeshift icepack around his ankle before taking off his other slipper too.

“I’ve never been the lead before,” Ancel said, only to blush immediately afterwards. He shouldn’t have said that. He didn’t want Berenger thinking he couldn’t handle it. He looked up at the ceiling and crossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the way Berenger was still fussing over him. He was especially ignoring the way his cheeks were flushing at the attention.

“You shouldn’t overwork yourself,” Berenger said.

Ancel snorted. “Yeah right,” he muttered. “As if you wouldn’t kick me out as soon as you thought I was slacking.”

Berenger sighed heavily and stood to go do something at his computer. “There’s a balance,” he said, “between slacking and killing yourself.”

“Sure,” Ancel muttered, looking away. The ache in his ankle had faded and he wanted to go before this conversation turned into a full-on lecture. He sat up, getting ready to stand.

“No,” Berenger said sharply and Ancel paused. “Don’t put any weight on it just yet.”

“How am I supposed to get home?” Ancel bit out, annoyed and too tired to hide it.

“I’ll take you,” Berenger said, like it was obvious. “Leave the ice on a little longer to bring down the swelling.”

“How much longer?” Ancel asked petulantly.

“Twenty minutes.”

Ancel groaned as he lay back down, throwing his arm over his face. “What the hell am I supposed to do for twenty minutes?”

“I don’t care,” Berenger said. “Take a nap.” 

Ancel sighed sharply but Berenger simply ignored him, clacking away on his keyboard. At least it could be worse. The couch in Berenger’s office was pretty comfortable. The only light came from Berenger’s desk lamp and computer screen, so it wasn’t very bright. The room was warm and smelled pleasantly of Berenger’s cologne. Ancel stifled a yawn as he turned his face to watch Berenger work.

He looked rather handsome in the intimate lighting, a shadow of stubble darkening his face this late into the night. It was funny- all the times Ancel had tried to seduce him, he’d never really considered what it would be like to actually sleep with him. Ancel considered it now, watching his hands moving over the keyboard, the way a small wrinkle appeared between his brows when he frowned at his screen.

Berenger seemed like the type of man who fucked with the lights off, probably in missionary. He was probably quiet, his lovers even quieter. But maybe not. They said it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for.

At some point Ancel must have drifted off, because he woke to warm hands touching him gently. He opened his eyes to see Berenger perched awkwardly on the arm of the couch, wrapping his hurt ankle with an ace bandage.

“I can do it myself,” Ancel said defensively. “You don’t have to baby me.”

Berenger paused, looking up. Ancel couldn’t read the expression on his face.

“You’re my Giselle,” Berenger said.

Ancel flushed and didn’t know why. It was a simple statement of fact. Coming from Berenger, it felt like something more. It felt like a confession, or maybe a promise.

He didn’t protest as Berenger finished up and brought out a pair of loafers for him to put on. They were too big, but they were comfortable and warm. At some point Berenger must have returned to the practice room to get Ancel’s things, because he helped him on with his coat and picked up his bag with one hand, wrapping his other around Ancel’s waist.

“Try not to put any weight on it just yet,” he said and Ancel nodded.

Ancel managed to hobble his way out to Berenger’s car, his face burning at the indignity of it all. Berenger drove a gleaming black Mercedes, the interior upholstered in cream colored leather as soft as butter. Ancel felt painfully out of place sitting in the passenger seat, like he was somehow defiling the interior with his knock-off Gucci coat.

The feeling of wrongness only increased as he directed Berenger and his nice car towards Ancel’s shitty neighborhood. And then of _course_ Berenger insisted on taking him upstairs to his apartment, which was even more embarrassing.

He lived in a tiny studio, barely larger than a dorm room. The only reason it wasn’t a complete mess was because he didn’t really have any things, just the futon he slept on and a rack for his clothes. His tiny kitchen didn’t even have a full size refrigerator. His only bowl and fork were soaking in the sink, unwashed from that morning’s breakfast.

“You can go now,” he said pointedly while Berenger stood in the middle of the pathetic little room, looking around with a frown.

“Why is it freezing in here?”

Ancel considered lying, except he remembered what Berenger had said before. _“If you want to keep your place in this company, you’ll never lie to me again.”_

“I haven’t paid the heating bill,” Ancel muttered. Berenger looked at him incredulously. “What!” Ancel burst out, throwing up his hands. “I’m always at the studio anyway! What does it matter!”

“You can afford a nicer place than this,” Berenger said, looking away.

Ancel flushed so hard he felt lightheaded. “I can’t, actually,” he spit out. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“I know how much you make,” Berenger said.

God. Why did Berenger have to be such a stupid asshole.

Ancel crossed his arms over his chest. “For your information,” he said testily, “I have debts, alright? I didn’t have a rich mommy and daddy to take care of me so I took out loans to pay for ballet classes.”

Berenger stared at him for a long moment before nodding. “I see,” he said in that infuriatingly calm tone of voice. “I’ll talk to Auguste about raising your salary, though I don’t imagine it’ll be an issue. You’d be better off somewhere closer to the studio anyway. Although anywhere might be better than… _this.”_

Ancel’s mouth dropped open. He was too shocked to even register the insult. “You’re going to raise my salary?” Ancel asked. It was too good to be true. He’d never gotten anything without getting on his knees for it, bending over for it. And Berenger was just going to give him a raise for no reason? It was insane.

“What do you think my job is?” Berenger asked.

Ancel shrugged. He’d assumed it was doing paperwork and lording it over everyone else. At least that’s what all his other directors had been like. He had a feeling Berenger wouldn’t be particularly satisfied with that answer. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Directing.”

“My job is to support you,” Berenger said, turning to look at him. His brown eyes were intense and unreadable. “So you can do your best work. You’re my Giselle,” he added in that stupid cryptic way of his. “Get some sleep. Don’t come to rehearsal tomorrow. Rest your ankle and come in the day after.”

He turned and left without another word, which was so fucking typical.

Ancel sighed and plopped down on the futon, not sure how he felt about the whole thing.

* * *

Ancel dutifully rested his ankle, laying in bed fucking around on his phone all day. He was bored out of his mind by the time he finally returned to rehearsal.

Things seemed to return more or less to normal. Except Ancel noticed Berenger watching him more, his brows furrowed into a slight frown. 

When payday came around he was practically giddy, thinking about the raise Berenger had talked about. But there wasn’t the customary envelope waiting for him in his locker and Ancel scowled angrily, slamming the door shut. Of course it was too good to be true. He should have known.

He stormed down to Berenger’s office, opening the door without knocking.

“I don’t know what I ever did to you,” he said, his voice rising angrily, “but this is- this is- fucked up!”

“Ancel,” Berenger said calmly, rising from his chair.

“Are you going to keep my paycheck hostage now?” Ancel demanded. “Just because I didn’t pay the heating, and- and have _debt-_ you’re going to be my nanny?”

“No,” Berenger said, opening a drawer and pulling out an envelope. He handed it over calmly. Ancel took it, trying to still the trembling in his hands.

“What the hell is this,” Ancel said flatly. “I have to get my pay from you personally now?”

“I saw you have your checks made out to cash,” Berenger said, infuriatingly calm even as Ancel’s eyes prickled with unshed tears. “I opened a bank account for you. From now on you get paid by direct deposit.”

“What?” Ancel asked.

Berenger looked pointedly at the envelope and slowly Ancel opened it. There was a debit card inside, as well as a bank statement along with a note with all the necessary info. It was in his name, and the starting balance was easily triple what his biweekly salary had been before. He could only stare as Berenger put on his coat and walked closer.

“It’s good you came,” Berenger said. “I wanted to show you something else. Come along.”

Ancel trailed after him, still reeling. They left the studio and walked two blocks to a high rise apartment building. Berenger nodded to the doorman and then they were in an elevator heading up to the tenth floor.

“I assume you don’t have trouble with heights?” Berenger asked, probably misinterpreting the shock on Ancel’s face as nerves.

What the hell was going on? Was this where Berenger lived? Was Ancel going to have to suck cock for his supper after all? But if Berenger was going to fuck him, he could have done it in his office. What was the point of this whole charade?

Berenger dug a set of keys out of his pocket and opened a door that led to an empty apartment. It was furnished tastefully but with restraint, the furniture simple but well made. There was a modern kitchen off the living room, as well as a sliding glass door that led to a balcony. There was another door off to the side standing open. It led to a bedroom that was just as tastefully appointed as the rest of the space. There was a bed inside- a real bed, with a headboard and everything. It was huge, and made up with satin sheets.

“What- what is this?” Ancel asked. Was this Berenger’s place? It was completely devoid of personal touches, which seemed like a bit much even for him. There was a single purple orchid standing in a pot on the dining table.

“Your new apartment,” Berenger said.

“My new- what?” Ancel breathed out. This couldn’t be real life, could it?

“You don’t like it?” Berenger asked. “There are a few other places we can take a look at, but I thought this might be a good fit. You can walk to the studio, and there’s a decent gym downstairs, and a pool. There’s a grocery store on the corner.”

“I-” Ancel turned slowly, taking it in. “I-” There was a small note resting beside the orchid. He picked it up and opened it.

_Happy housewarming._

_-Berenger_

“I can’t afford this,” Ancel said at last, turning to stare at Berenger wide eyed.

“You can,” Berenger said. “Regardless, rent is paid off until the end of the season.” He set the keys down on the table beside the orchid. _Ancel’s_ keys. To his _new apartment._

“You can’t just-” Ancel had no idea how to finish that sentence. Clearly Berenger just had.

“I won’t have my lead sleeping on a futon in an unheated apartment,” Berenger said sternly. “If you don’t like it we can take a look at the other options. Otherwise, I’ll have your things moved in tonight.”

“Of course I like it,” Ancel said. “But you can’t just-” He swallowed hard around the knot in his throat. The place was perfect. He’d never imagined he could live somewhere as nice as this. What did Berenger want in return?

Ancel swallowed again. He wanted what all men wanted. It had just taken a little longer than usual but here they were anyway, alone in Ancel’s brand new apartment that was apparently paid off for the coming few months.

Ancel put on his game face and sauntered over to wrap his arms around Berenger’s neck, smiling flirtatiously.

“How can I ever repay you?” he murmured, batting his eyelashes.

Berenger was clearly not amused. “Be the best,” he said simply before pulling away.

* * *

Ancel sat on the couch in his _new apartment_ in a stupor for what felt like ages after Berenger had gone. Eventually there was a knock on the door and he opened it to let in a few moving men, coming to bring his things. Clothes, mostly. There was a box of personal effects and trinkets, his only bowl and fork, his single coffee cup.

The new apartment had cutlery and a full set of flatware and cookware, all tucked neatly away in their proper drawers. The fridge was even stocked with food. And there was a T.V. too. Ancel had never had a T.V. before. It probably had cable. He’d never had cable before either. He didn’t bother checking- the remote had so many mysterious buttons that Ancel didn’t even try touching it.

He had a real closet now, an impressive walk-in off the bedroom. He spent an hour giddily arranging his things on real shelves before throwing himself down on the bed, burrowing into the satin sheets. _Satin._

He was never going back to boring old cotton again.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Nicaise asked the next day during rehearsal.

“What?” Ancel asked sheepishly. “Nothing.”

“You’ve been smiling like an idiot all day.”

“I-” Ancel hadn’t been. Had he? He raised his hands to his face only to see that it was true. He was smiling. He glanced over at where Berenger was deep in conversation with Orlant at the edge of the room and blushed, looking away.

“You didn’t,” Nicaise said flatly. “Berenger? You got proper old Berenger in the sack?”

“No!” Ancel said, flushing harder. “And he’s not- old.” He wasn’t, really. If Ancel had to guess, he’d say Berenger was probably only thirty.

“He’s ancient,” Nicaise countered.

“You think everyone’s ancient,” Ancel said. “Because you’re a baby.”

Nicaise rolled his eyes. “If you go and do something embarrassing like fall in love with him, I don’t think I can be friends with you.”

“Who’s falling in love?” Lazar asked, walking over.

“You are,” Ancel retorted. “With Giselle. Now let’s practice the duet from the first act again.”

“You know I’d never turn down the chance to put my hands all over a pretty ballerina,” Lazar said, waggling his eyebrows. Nevertheless he bowed gallantly and held out his hand.

Ancel snorted as he took it. Lazar’s flirting was a bit much sometimes, but he was basically harmless. And he was more fun than most of the other dancers.

They practiced the duet, though the first act was pretty solid by now. Most of it was ensemble work anyway, bigger scenes that involved a lot of careful choreography and moving around the stage, though as far as Ancel’s part went- not very difficult dancing. 

The meat of the ballet was really the second act after Giselle died and rose from the grave as a spirit to join the other ghostly scorned maidens. First there was a solo, followed by the duet with Nicaise- the ghost queen. Then Lazar would join the scene and the truly difficult pas de deux would begin.

It was more complicated than anything Ancel had danced before- full of lifts and other partner work. And of course it had to be flawless. He was portraying a ghost, after all. He had to be preternaturally good or the illusion would be shattered.

He practiced late into the night most days, watching himself in the mirrors to try and perfect each move and spin, his muscles aching. But there was only so much he could do on his own. It was an involved duet- Lazar would have his hands on him nearly the whole time for the lifts and the spins, steadying and balancing him for moves he could never hope to accomplish alone.

But Lazar never stayed past official rehearsing hours- he had an old hip injury and extra hours of dancing risked aggravating it. He could afford the looser schedule, he was experienced and well practiced. Ancel didn’t have that luxury, which was frustrating to say the least.

“You’re taking the adagio too quickly,” Berenger said from the doorway behind him.

Ancel startled, glancing up. He’d thought he was alone.

“And the penché should be deeper.”

Ancel scowled, pushing his sweaty hair back from his face as he stared at Berenger in the mirror, not turning. “Yes, thank you,” he said testily. He was too tired to be patient in the face of Berenger’s bullshit tonight. “And I’m also not sailing effortlessly through the air while the absent Count Albrécht carries me about on his shoulders.”

“No, you’re not,” Berenger said simply. He had the gall to just _stand_ there, leaning insolently against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. His stupid brown jacket was bunched up around his shoulders. It looked hideous.

“Lazar can’t practice after hours,” Ancel said, setting his hands over his hips in the bitchiest posture possible. He didn’t turn around to face Berenger because he didn’t deserve it. “So I have to practice on my own. There’s a limit to what I can do without a partner, alright?”

Berenger was silent for a long considering moment. “Alright,” he said before stepping fully into the room and taking off his jacket, draping it over one of the chairs standing against the wall.

Ancel watched in confusion as Berenger proceeded to toe off his shoes and take off his socks, followed by his sweater. He had a black tank top on underneath, and he had- arms.

Well. Of course he had _arms._ Ancel knew that already. But he hadn’t known Berenger would look like- _that._ Strong, wide-shouldered. His waist was trim. All of him was trim. His usual clothing made him look shapeless, which was honestly a crime.

Ancel’s mouth was dry as Berenger came closer until he was standing just behind him, his bare feet silent over the floor. “Start again,” he said. “From the penché.”

And then his hands were on Ancel’s waist and Ancel had to suppress a shiver. Berenger’s hands felt scalding hot through the thin material of his leotard. 

“Do you even know the choreography?” he managed to retort, mostly to distract himself from the way his heart was racing. First the arms, now this.

Berenger’s lips quirked up a little- the closest thing to a smile he’d ever seen cross Berenger’s face.

“Who do you think wrote it?”

“Uh. Orlant?”

“He helped,” Berenger said, and Ancel could swear he could feel Berenger’s warm breath ghosting over his skin. “From the penché.”

“Alright,” Ancel said. “Don’t drop me.”

He took a deep breath and went into the starting posture, raising his arms. He was pretty sure Berenger wouldn’t drop him. Still, the first move was cautious as he bent down, raising one leg gracefully skyward. Berenger took his weight without trouble, moving with him and holding him steady.

“You can do better than that,” he said quietly and moved one hand from Ancel’s waist to his thigh, easily pulling his leg up higher. Ancel bit his lip to hold back a hiss of surprise, trembling with exertion as Berenger kept him in a deep penché for a tense drawn out moment before slowly letting him drop out of the pose.

“Next,” he said, so Ancel went into the next set of movements. Berenger followed along easily, his hands a warm comfort on Ancel’s body. Ancel went through the routine, the music playing in his head. There was a lift that Berenger executed even better than Lazar had that day in practice, and soon the strangeness of the whole situation faded and dancing together was as easy as breathing.

By the end of it Ancel was giddy, his skin tingling everywhere Berenger had touched him. And then, maybe better than everything else, Berenger smiled.

“Very good,” he said.

Ancel felt himself blushing brightly at the praise. Berenger never said anything good about anyone. Ancel raised his hands without quite meaning to, taking Berenger by the upper arms. He wasn’t even breathing hard. Holy fuck.

“Let’s do it again,” Ancel said.

“No,” Berenger said, shaking his head and stepping back. Ancel frowned after him. “It’s late,” he said, sounding almost apologetic as he went to get his discarded clothes. “You should get some rest before tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Ancel said, latching on to the concept of _tomorrow_ like a drowning man might clutch at a life preserver. Whatever strange magical thing had happened here tonight- he needed it again. He needed Berenger touching him, dancing with him, _praising_ him again and again and again. “You’ll help me again tomorrow?”

For some reason Berenger hesitated. “I’ll see if Lazar can do some extra sessions with you.”

“No,” Ancel said, hearing the desperation in his voice and unable to do anything about it. “He’ll aggravate his hip. But you can do it. Won’t you do it?”

“Maybe Orlant-”

“I don’t want _Orlant,”_ Ancel said, getting angry now. “I want you.”

A muscle in Berenger’s jaw tightened, like he was gritting his teeth. As quickly as it had come, it was gone. “Alright,” Berenger said with a small nod. “Tomorrow, then. But we’ll start earlier. We’ll practice from eight to ten, and you’ll go home after.”

“That’s not enough time,” Ancel said. He usually stayed until midnight, or past it.

“It will be,” Berenger said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drawing is on tumblr [HERE](https://barbitone.tumblr.com/post/190735852020/ko-fi-society6-commission-prices-vary-ask) or twitter [HERE](https://twitter.com/barbitoneart/status/1226532969457889280?s=20) pls reblog, don't repost :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out ch2 for a pic of Ancel and Berenger dancing together :)

* * *

Ancel lay awake that night, playing the dance in his head over and over again.

He’d assumed Berenger was just an accountant or something. He dressed like one, talked like one, acted like one. In retrospect, Ancel should have noticed the way he moved- controlled and graceful, no motion wasted. He moved like a dancer.

Giving up on sleep Ancel reached for his phone with a huff to do an internet search on Berenger’s name. There wasn’t much in the way of news, just a few stories about the productions Berenger had directed while with the De Vere company. He knew that much already from when he’d first looked Berenger up after their meeting. He hadn’t found any trace of a dance career then, and he didn’t find one now.

Maybe he’d danced under a stage name? The De Vere company was Ancel’s only lead- maybe Berenger had danced with them before becoming the director. Ancel scrolled through the info on the past seasons. Berenger had been a director for five years. The year before that, De Vere had put on a production of Le Corsaire.

Ancel found an article reviewing it along with a cast photo. “Oh my god,” he muttered to himself as he stared at the screen, zooming in. There was Berenger, right up front as befitted the lead- dressed as Conrad, the pirate. The role of his girlfriend Medora was played by a pretty brunette ballerina Ancel didn’t recognize.

The article raved about Conrad’s performance, played by a Mr. Vaslav Varenne.

“Oh my god,” Ancel muttered, searching for the alias. “Holy shit.”

Berenger had danced with De Vere for three years, and before that he’d been part of an all-male modern ballet company. And-

“Fucking hell,” Ancel muttered in disbelief. There was a video of one of their performances online, and the dancers were all practically _naked._ They’d done a ballet interpretation of Equus, and there was a particularly sensual dance between Berenger and someone that Ancel guessed was meant to be a horse. The costuming was rather minimal, to say the least, but the stranger was wearing a bridle. A _bridle._ So. That was just. Not what Ancel would have expected. At all.

To make matters even worse, Berenger had a giant tattoo on his lower back- an eagle with its wings spread wide, curling around his waist so their tips almost met just above his navel.

“Hnng,” Ancel managed before abruptly dropping his phone on his face. “Fuck,” he groaned with a wince. He wanted to see more but he had a feeling that would put him on dangerous ground.

What the fucking hell.

* * *

Ancel had no idea how he was supposed to look Berenger in the eye knowing what he knew now. Luckily he wasn’t at rehearsals that day, and soon the routine of it all was enough of a distraction to drag Ancel’s thoughts away to safer shores.

After the main part of practice Ancel had dinner with Nicaise at a nearby ramen shop before returning to the studio to practice some more. He’d almost forgotten about everything but the dance- right up until the clock struck eight and Berenger walked in.

Ancel turned. He was going to play it cool. He was going to just- be very cool about all of this. Berenger was still Berenger, although it was difficult to reconcile the man in the stuffy jackets with the man with the _arms_ and presumably a _giant tattoo_ that walked into the practice room.

He was already in a tanktop and a pair of clinging black track pants. He took off his loafers so he was barefoot and Ancel flushed. That was a modern ballet thing. Bare feet. He should have known. He had a visceral flashback to Berenger’s dance with the man in the bridle. That had been the most sexually charged thing he’d ever seen on a stage, and he’d been to _strip clubs._

“Ancel,” Berenger greeted him calmly.

“Can I see your tattoo?” Ancel blurted out, only to immediately wince. That was the opposite of playing it cool. And now Berenger knew he’d been snooping and he’d get mad and storm out and then Ancel would have to practice the stupid duet on his own again. 

Except Berenger didn’t seem particularly put out. His lips did that quirk, curling up into an almost smile. “If you’re good.”

Ancel’s mouth went dry. That had not been what he’d been expecting.

“We’ll practice the lifts tonight,” Berenger said, as casual as anything. “Are you ready? Or do you need a moment?”

Ancel’s face was beet red but he did _not_ need a moment, thank you. “I’m ready,” he said, and got into position.

* * *

The thing was, Berenger had been right. Two hours of dedicated and focused practice with a skilled partner was resulting in much better progress than any of Ancel’s relentless fumbling on his own.

Whenever Ancel tried to stay past ten to continue practicing alone, Berenger would look at him sternly and insist on walking him home. It should have been overbearing, but it was kind of sweet instead. The walks were pretty nice. It turned out Berenger actually had a sense of humor- dry as sand, but still. 

Ancel found himself not dreading going home as much as he used to. He had heating now, and internet, and a warm comfy bed. And he had a bathtub too, not just a tiny rusted out shower cubicle.

He indulged in the joy of bubble baths and full nights of sleep uninterrupted by arguing neighbors. On particularly good nights he’d savor a glass of wine while sitting on his balcony, listening to classical music and the sounds of the city below.

The only problem was that as he grew more comfortable dancing with Berenger- it got more difficult to dance with Lazar.

Somehow, when he was dancing with Berenger it was second nature to put Giselle’s longing and anguish into every motion. For all his aloofness, Berenger projected an easy sensuality when he danced and Ancel answered it in kind. The two of them worked so well together that dancing with Lazar felt like putting on a pair of too-tight slippers.

It was just- it was _off._ Lazar didn’t hold him the right way, or move the right way. He didn’t smell right, either. He always wore some aggressive deodorant that was probably called something stupid like _machine gun explosion_ or _godzilla breath._

“You can do better than that,” Berenger said after watching Ancel run through the duet with Lazar for what felt like the millionth time that day.

“I know,” Ancel groaned, pushing his hair out of his face in frustration. It was so good with Berenger, and it wasn’t like Lazar was terrible. So why couldn’t he just _do_ it?

“Let’s take a break,” Berenger said. “Come back in thirty minutes and try again.” He left the room and Ancel’s heart sank. He was screwing everything up.

“Fuck,” he muttered, sitting down on the ground to take off his pointe shoes and stretch out his feet.

“Sorry, Red,” Lazar said, sitting down next to him. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Take a fucking shower,” Ancel said in annoyance. “You reek of deodorant. I can’t stand it.”

“Are you serious?”

Ancel sighed and buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know, maybe,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. That was a dick thing to say.”

“No, I meant- I can go shower.”

“Really?” Ancel asked miserably, looking up.

“Sure,” Lazar said with a shrug. “You hate my deodorant. I’ve heard weirder things before. It’s worth a try.” He paused and leaned closer, nudging Ancel in the side with his elbow. “Wanna come join me?”

“Ew,” Ancel said with a laugh. “No thanks.”

“Your loss,” Lazar said, standing and offering Ancel a hand up. “See you back here in thirty.”

“Sure,” Ancel said. 

Once Lazar had gone, Ancel made a beeline for Berenger’s office. He didn’t bother knocking, as usual.

“Ancel,” Berenger said, not even looking up from his computer screen. Last night he’d had his hand on Ancel’s ass during a lift, his other practically in his crotch, and now he was acting like they were mere acquaintances.

“Can I take a nap here?” Ancel asked. “On your couch?”

Berenger finally looked up. “If you’re tired you should go home.”

“I’m not tired,” Ancel said rolling his eyes. “I’m just- could I just stay here? Just until the break is over?”

“If you like.”

“Thanks,” Ancel said, moving to sprawl out over the couch. Berenger went back to work, the silence somehow warm and companionable. It was relaxing and Ancel took a deep breath, in and out, closing his eyes. He felt calmer already, but something was still missing. “I’m cold,” he announced petulantly. “Could I borrow your jacket?”

Berenger’s steady clacking on the keyboard stopped. “You hate my jacket.”

Ancel didn’t answer, turning his head to stare at Berenger pointedly. Slowly Berenger stood from his chair and walked over, pulling off his ugly brown jacket as he went. Ancel felt frozen as Berenger draped it over him.

“Alright?” Berenger asked quietly.

Ancel nodded and curled up on his side facing away from him, breathing deeply as he was enveloped in the smell of fresh linen and Berenger’s cologne. The jacket was still warm from his body, the fabric fine and soft against his skin. It was stupid but at the moment Ancel felt too good to be embarrassed.

He even managed to doze off for a bit before Berenger shook him awake. Ancel yawned as he sat up, feeling relaxed and at ease.

“Are you sure you want to continue tonight?” Berenger asked. “Maybe you should go home.”

“No,” Ancel said, still sleepy as he absentmindedly pulled on Berenger’s jacket and stood. Berenger was looking at him oddly. Probably because he was barefoot- he’d left his shoes in the practice room.

He didn’t wait to see if Berenger would follow, walking out of the office and back to the practice room. Lazar was already there, freshly showered as he did his stretches. He looked at Ancel oddly too, but Ancel ignored him as he sat on the ground to put his pointe shoes back on. The sleeves of Berenger’s jacket were too long and they got in the way, but Ancel just rolled them up a bit and got on with it.

“I’m ready,” he said once he’d stood.

“You gonna dance in that jacket?” Lazar asked, quirking up an eyebrow.

“Of course not,” Ancel said, rolling his eyes. He took the jacket off with some regret, shivering at the chill on his arms. But the smell lingered- fresh linen and cologne.

The music started up as Ancel walked closer. He forced himself to focus only on Lazar, pretending they were the only two people in the world. They danced. It wasn’t as horrible as before, now that Lazar didn’t reek. He still didn’t move quite right, or touch him quite right. His hands felt strange somehow, like they should be hotter, or maybe bigger. But if he closed his eyes Ancel could almost make himself believe that it was really Berenger he was dancing with and that made it all easier somehow.

It started off shaky but by the end of the dance they moved together smoothly, just right.

“That was good,” Berenger said. “Very good. We’ll be ready for the dress rehearsal next week.”

“Really?” Ancel asked, beaming with pride. Lazar laughed.

“Do it again,” Berenger said, “focus on the lifts. Deepen the penché.”

“You always say deepen the penché,” Ancel said, rolling his eyes.

“So deepen it,” Berenger said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll go check on the others.”

It was strange to practice without Berenger watching, but now that Ancel had gotten the hang of it, the second time around was even better than the first.

“I guess it really was the deodorant,” Ancel said with a laugh once they were done and packing up their things.

“Maybe,” Lazar said, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Maybe it was something else. Don’t forget your jacket.”

Ancel startled as he saw Berenger’s jacket where he’d left it crumpled on top of one of the chairs. He’d assumed Berenger would take it with him, but it still lay there incongruously. God, but it was ugly as sin.

Lazar had gone by then. There was no one around to see Ancel put it back on before heading home.

* * *

The next day Berenger called practice to an early finish, announcing that they’d done enough for now and deserved a break.

The company twittered with glee- it was a rare thing for Berenger to go easy on them.

“Drinks and dancing tonight,” Nicaise said, hooking his arm through Ancel’s.

“Only if you’re buying.”

“Lazar’s buying,” Nicaise said, grinning in Lazar’s direction. “Aren’t you, babe?” he called out.

“Anything for my sweethearts,” Lazar said easily.

It was still early and Ancel’s place was the closest, so the three of them went back to his to hang out for a while and enjoy the rare indulgence of greasy pizza.

“Should we be hanging out with the ensemble?” Ancel asked, picking pieces of pepperoni off his slice and putting them back in the box, mostly to watch Lazar and Nicaise fight over them. It wasn’t much of a fight, all Nicaise had to do was pout prettily to get Lazar to relent with a sigh.

“The plebes?” Nicaise said with a snort.

“You and I were _plebes_ until just a few weeks ago,” Ancel countered. He’d always envied the close bonds of the principals when he’d been in the ensemble. He’d hated how they were always aloof, acting like they were better than everyone else.

“Don’t worry,” Lazar said. “They’ll all be at the bar tonight anyway. We’ll hang out with them then.”

“So this is like a company thing?” Ancel asked curiously.

“Pretty much,” Lazar said. “We usually have one or two outings like this during the season. Everyone comes. It’s a blast.”

“Everyone?” Ancel asked, thinking of Berenger. Surely he wouldn’t go out to a bar. Then again, Ancel never thought he’d have a tattoo, or dance with a man in a bridle, either. 

“Even Auguste comes out sometimes,” Lazar said.

“The mysterious Auguste,” Ancel echoed. Auguste De Vere was the owner of the De Vere company, though he didn’t participate in the day-to-day details of the operation. He had Berenger for that.

“Don’t even think about hitting on him,” Nicaise said. “His wife Kashel will literally have you murdered.”

“As if I would,” Ancel said, taking another slice of pizza with a smile.

Lazar always dressed like a flash bastard when he wasn’t in his practice clothes, as though he was ready to head to the club at a moment’s notice. He waited and polished off the food while Ancel took Nicaise back into his bedroom so they could get ready. They were roughly the same size, despite Nicaise being a few years younger, so Ancel lent him some clothes out of his meticulously organized closet.

He didn’t generally get the chance to get dressed up, so he made a point of it now. He put on makeup and brushed out his hair so it fell past his shoulders in shining waves. He even put on some jewelry, the best he had. Most of it was cheap costume jewelry, but he had a few authentic pieces. He put on a peridot ring and matching peridot earrings. He’d have emeralds someday, real ones. Someday soon.

They grabbed a cab together to go down to the bar that was popular with the rest of the company. It was a bustling spot with a live band and a small dance floor. Ancel could already make out a few people he knew. Erasmus and Kallias were dancing together, scandalously close. Others from the company were dancing or standing around in small groups, chatting and laughing.

Lazar went to get drinks while Nicaise took Ancel over to talk to Isander and his friends.

Ancel was expecting to be treated coldly, but they just laughed and patted him on the back, telling him what a good job he was doing. What the hell. He was used to snide comments and backstabbing, not coworkers being _nice_ to him.

After Lazar came back with martinis they drank and talked. Nicaise dragged Lazar onto the dance floor while Ancel watched with a grin, alone for the moment but still having fun, probably because he was two martinis in and starting to feel pleasantly warm.

That was when he caught sight of Berenger, leaning against the bar. He was wearing tight black jeans and heavy boots. Instead of his customary sweater and jacket combo, he wore a button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to this elbows.

Berenger’s hair was a little mussed and his cheeks were flushed. He was laughing. That was when Ancel noticed the man beside him- blond and ridiculously handsome, tall and well built. The blond man was laughing too as he raised his hand to rest it on Berenger’s back in a suspiciously intimate gesture, grinning as he leaned in to say something into his ear.

Ancel’s heart sank. So that was why Berenger didn’t want him. He was with Mr. Sunshine.

The blond was wearing a wedding ring. Was Berenger married? Did he keep that a secret, along with his scandalous dancing career and his stupid tattoo? It was just Ancel’s luck. He should have known it would be something like that.

Except then a pretty brunette walked up and teasingly pinched Berenger’s ear. Mr. Sunshine grabbed her around the waist and kissed her passionately and Ancel could breathe again. He recognized the brunette- she’d danced Medora to Berenger’s Conrad in Le Corsaire. He mentally ran through the credits as he tried to remember her name-

Kashel. That was Auguste’s wife, which meant Mr. Sunshine was Auguste De Vere, owner of the company.

Berenger and Auguste seemed awfully cosy with each other, but now that Ancel wasn’t seething with jealousy he could tell that it was friendly, almost brotherly. And Auguste was clearly straight, and married. So Berenger was still fair game, if Ancel could pin him down.

And of course that was when Berenger looked up and caught him staring. He smiled and raised his glass towards him in acknowledgement. Ancel flushed and turned away, his heart pounding. He had to play it cool. Staring longingly was not playing it cool.

He tried to put Berenger out of his mind as he drank and chatted with Nicaise and Lazar and everyone else. Eventually he finished his drink and went up to the bar, waiting to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Hey gorgeous,” someone said from beside him.

Ancel spared the guy a quick glance before looking away with a frown. “Not interested.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” the guy said, sliding closer. He wasn’t deterred by Ancel’s silence. “Did it hurt?”

“Oh my god,” Ancel said, taking a step away from him. “You’re not actually going to use that line, are you?”

“Is it so wrong to call you an angel?” the guy asked. He reached out as if to touch Ancel’s hair, at which point Berenger came out of nowhere and stepped easily between them, leaning on the bar with his back to the persistent stranger.

“Good night, I hope?” Berenger asked with a smile. He nodded over to the bartender, who nodded back and came over.

“Hey, bro,” the stranger said, disgruntled.

Berenger ignored him. “What are you having?”

“Martini,” Ancel said, completely charmed at the rescue.

“Bro,” the stranger insisted. “We were kind of in the middle of something here.”

Berenger made a show of turning around and pointedly looking the man up and down, frowning in a way that clearly indicated he found the man lacking. “Were you, really?” he asked, his tone scathing. “Look at him. Look at you. Are you unaware that you have a face like a smashed up brick and a body to match, or is your ego really that huge? _Bro.”_

Ancel snorted out a shocked laugh. The stranger’s mouth fell open and he scowled before storming off.

“Brutal,” Ancel said, trying to get his giggling under control.

“I caught that guy trying to corner Nicaise in the bathroom half an hour ago,” Berenger said, turning to the bar to retrieve their fresh drinks and handing the martini over. “He’s lucky he still has all his teeth.”

“Cheers,” Ancel said, clinking his glass against Berenger’s.

“Cheers,” Berenger echoed, taking a drink from his own glass- a whiskey neat.

“I didn’t think you drank,” Ancel said, leaning a little closer so their shoulders brushed together.

“Once in a while,” Berenger said. “I’m surprised I didn’t see you dancing.”

“I don’t dance,” Ancel said.

Berenger raised his eyebrows incredulously, waiting.

“I mean- I dance _classical ballet,”_ Ancel said, brushing his hair back from his face. “Not however normal people dance. I don’t- I’d just make a fool of myself.”

“I doubt it,” Berenger said reasonably. “It’s not hard. Certainly easier than a fouette, and you’ve mastered that.”

“Maybe you could teach me,” Ancel said flirtatiously, leaning closer.

“Do you want me to?” Berenger asked. He wasn’t pulling away. If anything his free hand drifted down to settle on Ancel’s waist, his touch as light as a butterfly.

Ancel glanced over at the dance floor, where Kallias had his hands on Erasmus’ hips and was grinding against Erasmus’ ass as they undulated to the pulse of the music. Erasmus laughed and threw his head back, baring his throat for Kallias’ amorous lips.

For a second Ancel imagined dancing with Berenger like that, like sex personified, in front of _everybody._

“It’s late,” Ancel managed, his voice coming out practically in a squeak. “I’m probably going to head home.” He wasn’t shy at any other times, so why did he suddenly feel like his skin was on fire?

He threw back the rest of his martini and set his glass down on the bar with a loud clink, not meeting Berenger’s eyes.

“I’ll take you,” Berenger said and finished off his own drink, leaving some cash under his empty glass.

“You don’t need to babysit me,” Ancel said, feeling pleased anyway.

“It’s on my way,” Berenger said with a small quirk to his lips. “I was about to head out too.”

“Alright,” Ancel said, trailing after him as Berenger went out to the entrance, grabbing a leather jacket off a hook by the door. It was brown, but not as hideous as the stolen jacket draped casually over a dining chair in Ancel’s apartment.

The night air was pleasantly cool and Ancel shivered a little. Berenger draped his jacket over Ancel’s shoulders without comment, making Ancel flush harder. It was probably just the alcohol making him act silly.

Berenger went to raise his hand to hail a cab and Ancel grabbed his wrist, pulling him away from the street.

“Ancel-”

“We should walk,” he said hurriedly. He had Berenger all to himself and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.

“It’s two miles.”

“I haven’t gotten as much exercise today as I usually do,” Ancel said with a calculated smirk. “Someone ended rehearsal early.”

Berenger stared at him in that way he had, bottomless and unreadable, before finally shrugging. “Let’s walk.”

Ancel grinned and took Berenger’s arm. “I’m extremely drunk,” he announced in the face of Berenger’s puzzled look. “It’s not safe for me to walk by myself.”

“I see,” Berenger said with a small smile before setting off at an easy pace.

“So you and Auguste are friends?” Ancel asked, trying not to feel too giddy about getting his way.

“Yes,” Berenger said simply. 

Ancel nudged him in the side to prompt him to keep talking.

“We started dancing at the same time,” Berenger said “He started because Laurent wanted to but he was scared to go alone. As soon as Laurent got the hang of it, Auguste quit to play soccer. But we stayed friends anyway.”

“So he’s been to all your shows?”

“The ones where I was wearing clothes, yes.”

“Oh my god,” Ancel muttered.

“It’s _art,”_ Berenger said in a put-on snooty tone. “I didn’t take you for a prude.”

Ancel laughed, leaning against Berenger’s side. It was so easy to just talk and spend time together. It was late but the streets were busy, most of the shops still open. They passed a bustling ice cream parlor with elaborate pictures pasted to the display windows and Ancel couldn’t help missing a step, staring.

“What is that?” Ancel asked, wide-eyed.

“Ice cream,” Berenger said.

“It can’t be,” Ancel said, pulling him closer to look at the pictures. They looked like flowers wrapped up in waffle cones, decorated with all sorts of delicious embellishments.

“Do you want one?”

“I- you’re going to let me have ice cream?” Ancel asked. The life of a professional dancer required a strict and perfectly balanced diet. He didn’t exactly have too many chances to indulge in treats like ice cream. He would have assumed practical Berenger would look down on such a thing.

“You said it yourself- I’m not your governess,” Berenger said.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve never said the word _governess_ in my entire life.”

“Come on,” Berenger said, taking his hand and pulling him into the shop.

Ancel couldn’t help beaming with excitement as they waited in line. The menu was long and it had all kinds of things on it. There were dozens of toppings behind the glass counter and Ancel watched as the employees poured liquid ice cream on top of big round cold plates, mixing and stirring, then scraping thin rolls of ice cream up with flat metal spatulas and arranging them carefully in cones or cups, decorating them with fruit and chocolate and so many other things.

He was captivated when it was finally his turn, watching as they made a strawberry shortcake ice cream concoction for him in a waffle cone, only to drizzle it with white chocolate and bits of strawberries and raspberries.

Berenger paid before Ancel could even reach for his wallet, and then they were back on the street and Ancel couldn’t help laughing. “You didn’t get anything!”

“I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”

“Your loss,” Ancel said, sticking his tongue out for a lick. It was delicious and he said as much, shoving the cone into Berenger’s face. Berenger tightened his lips like he was fighting back a smile before leaning in and taking a careful bite of the plain waffle cone.

Ancel took Berenger’s arm again as they continued onwards, giddy and carefree. He’d never been on a real date but this was sort of how he’d imagined it would go- drinks at a bar, a romantic walk home, ice cream. Did Berenger see it the same way?

They were only a few blocks away from the apartment building when there was a faint shudder in the air and it suddenly started to rain.

“Shit,” Ancel laughed, moving to take off Berenger’s jacket and raise it overhead, shielding both of them. Berenger stepped closer, wrapping his arm around Ancel’s waist.

“Run!” Ancel said, and they jogged the last few blocks. They both got soaked anyway and Ancel handed the jacket back as they went into the front entrance.

“Mr. Sanpelier,” the doorman said with a nod. “Mr. Berenger.”

“Is Berenger not even your first name?” Ancel asked as they walked towards the elevator.

“Of course not,” Berenger said.

“My whole life has been a lie,” Ancel moaned dramatically.

“How sad for you,” Berenger said dryly and Ancel grinned at him.

Once the elevator reached the tenth floor Ancel stepped out, Berenger stepping out with him. Ancel reached into his pocket for keys before pausing and turning so his back was to the door.

“You should come inside,” he said.

“Should I?” Berenger asked.

“Yes,” Ancel said, his heart racing. “You should get dried off. Can you even get a cab this late?”

“I think you’re overestimating how far I have to go,” Berenger said with a little smile.

Ancel bit his lip. This was the best chance he’d ever had and he wasn’t going to waste it. He slid his fingers through Berenger's belt loops, pulling him closer so their hips were pressed together.

“Come inside,” he murmured as Berenger braced his hands on the door to catch himself from falling fully against him, inadvertently caging Ancel in. “You’ll catch a chill on the way home, and then what are we supposed to do without a director?”

“Ancel,” Berenger said, his voice low and warm. “I’m not going to catch a chill.” 

He leaned down and for a second Ancel thought Berenger was going to _finally_ kiss him, except he moved past Ancel’s mouth to bring his lips to Ancel’s ear.

“I live upstairs,” he whispered, his breath warm over Ancel’s skin.

“What?” Ancel asked.

Berenger was smiling as he stepped back. “Auguste owns the building, that’s how I was able to get the place for you so quickly. At least half a dozen of the other dancers live here too.”

“...Ah,” Ancel managed. He desperately needed another excuse for Berenger to just- come inside. If he just did that, Ancel _knew_ he could get Berenger to stop teasing and finally fuck him. At the moment his mind was drawing a blank, stuck replaying the way Berenger had whispered in his ear over and over again.

“Good night, Ancel,” Berenger said before turning and walking back into the elevator. Ancel could only watch the numbers above it lighting up in turn, all the way up to the fifteenth floor. Berenger lived in the penthouse.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

There was no rehearsal the next day so Ancel slept in and lazed around in bed for a while, still thinking about the previous night. He went through his normal routine in a daze until he found himself in his practice clothes, keys in hand as he stood in front of the door. There was no rehearsal that day and he found himself at a loss.

He changed into leggings and a loose crop top instead, tying up his hair into a tail, and headed down to the building’s gym for the first time since he’d moved in. He was going to work out because he couldn’t just waste the entire day. It certainly wasn’t because of Berenger’s revelation last night, or any attempts on Ancel’s part to run into him.

Berenger wasn’t at the gym. He was probably out somewhere, like at brunch with Auguste. Or maybe he was back at the studio, working.

Ancel managed twenty despondent minutes on an exercise bike before giving up and trudging out. He was immediately confronted by locker rooms that lead to the pool. Most of all he wanted to go home, but he was already here and he’d grabbed his swim trunks just in case. He might as well check it out.

He changed in the small locker room, grabbing a fresh towel out of the hamper before walking out into a large room bathed in sunlight from windows set high into the walls. The pool was surprisingly large with five lanes for swimming along with a general area. Only two of the lanes were occupied and Ancel considered taking a free one before he noticed the jacuzzi in the corner, set into the floor.

Fuck exercising, he was going in the hot tub.

Ancel slipped into the water with a quiet hiss, leaving his stuff on the ground just outside. There was a panel with different settings on it and he played around with it a bit until the jets turned on, making the water bubble. He couldn’t help a small giggle, his day turning up. He lived in a building with a _jacuzzi._ It was easily the most luxurious part of the whole thing. He grabbed his phone and pulled up his favorite gossip site, resolved to relax and enjoy himself.

“I think you’re supposed to shower before climbing into the communal jacuzzi.”

Ancel yelped in surprise at the familiar sound of Berenger’s voice, nearly dropping his phone in the water.

“That’s what the chlorine is for,” he grumbled before looking up, at which point he abruptly froze.

Berenger was standing beside the hot tub, toweling off his hair. He was only wearing tight swimming trunks so the entirety of his toned body was on glorious display, and-

“The _tattoo,”_ Ancel said in a hushed voice, full of awe as he stared. It was _real._ He liked tattoos in general, but it was even sexier on Berenger just for the fact that he didn’t look like the sort of man who would have one.

Berenger laughed. “Does it live up to your expectations?”

Ancel moved towards him, kneeling on the seat inside the jacuzzi as Berenger sat down on the edge, lowering his legs into the water.

“It looks different than it did during Equus,” Ancel said, captivated. He could see now, the tattoo was more elaborate than it had seemed in the grainy internet video he’d watched on his tiny phone screen. The eagle’s feathers had images hidden within them. He could make out a horse with a long flowing mane, a windmill, a pirate ship sailing over rough seas.

“Le Corsaire,” Ancel said as understanding dawned on him. Berenger had tattoos to mark the shows he’d been part of. “What’s this one?” Ancel asked, reaching out to carefully trace a feather on Berenger’s waist that contained something that looked like a couple of plums.

Berenger looked down. “The Nutcracker,” he said. “I was the sugarplum fairy.”

Ancel laughed in delight. “When was that? I don’t remember seeing The Nutcracker in Mr. Vaslav Varenne’s career history.”

“That one was all John Berenger,” Berenger said easily. “I was fifteen. Some of the tattoos are backdated.”

 _John._ So that was his real name. It felt strange to think of him as anything other than _Berenger_ but Ancel filed that away.

“Are you going to get one for Giselle?” he asked.

“Yes,” Berenger said. “What do you think it should be?”

 _Me,_ Ancel thought vehemently before blushing and looking away. 

“Are you just going to sit there or are you going to get in?” Ancel asked, feeling self conscious with the way Berenger loomed over him.

“Ah,” Berenger said with a small wince. “I can’t. The heat doesn’t agree with the pins in my knee.”

Ancel looked down and couldn’t help a sympathetic gasp at the mess of scarring over Berenger’s left knee. And then he saw the other scars- smaller and faint, dotting Berenger’s thighs and torso.

“Are those- stab marks?!”

“Yes,” Berenger said simply.

“Oh my god,” Ancel said, looking up at him. He seemed very calm about the whole thing, which was very Berenger and, at the moment, kind of disturbing. “What happened?”

“I got stabbed.”

“Oh my god,” Ancel repeated, that time in exasperation. 

“The world of ballet can be very cut throat,” Berenger said.

“Is that a _joke?”_ Ancel asked, incredulous. “Are you joking right now about your- your- _dozens_ of stab wounds?”

“I was attacked,” Berenger said, like it was no big deal. “I would have died if Lazar hadn’t been with me. He got off with a minor hip fracture and I ended up with a shattered knee and an abrupt career change.”

“So that’s why you don’t dance anymore,” Ancel said. It was tragic that Berenger’s career had ended like that. He’d been so good.

“That’s why I don’t dance anymore,” Berenger agreed.

“Oh no,” Ancel said, his heart sinking. That was probably why Berenger hadn’t wanted to practice with him at first. “You’re not- _hurting_ yourself to practice with me, are you?”

Berenger looked startled for a moment before his gaze went warm and soft. “No,” he said. “I can handle a few hours here and there. But I can’t keep up with a full production, not anymore.”

“That’s so sad,” Ancel said with a frown.

“It’s not that sad,” Berenger countered. “I enjoy what I do now. Besides, if I could still dance _I’d_ be Giselle and you’d have to be Myrtha.”

Ancel snorted out a laugh, mostly from imagining Berenger in Giselle’s outfit from the second act. “Please,” he said. “As if you could pull off that veil half as well as I do.”

Berenger smiled. “I suppose that’s true. Any big plans for your day off?”

Ancel shrugged. “Just this, I guess. I always find myself kind of at a loss when I can’t go to the studio.”

“Me too.” Berenger seemed unsure for a moment, his fingers drumming out a restless beat over the floor. “Do you want to go see the theatre?”

 _“Yes,”_ Ancel said, probably a little too quickly. He was too happy to be embarrassed. Berenger wanted to spend time with him. Berenger had _asked him out._ Well, he’d basically asked him out. Ancel was going to count it as a win.

“Alright,” Berenger said, standing. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

* * *

An hour was hardly enough time to get ready for his not-date with Berenger but Ancel made a solid go of it anyway. He rushed through showering and drying his hair. He didn’t have enough time to style it so he pulled it back into a loose braid and did his makeup before putting on a pair of high waisted leggings and a silk shirt, throwing a long camelhair peacoat over the whole ensemble. He agonized over what shoes to wear before going with a pair of understated slippers with a practical low heel. Maybe they would go for a walk, after the theatre.

Maybe they would make a whole day of it, and have dinner together. And afterwards Berenger would walk him back to his apartment and Ancel would- would- offer him a glass of wine, maybe. And then Berenger would come inside, and soon enough they’d be making out on the couch.

Berenger would carry him into the bedroom and lay him out over the satin sheets- the sheets he’d probably picked out himself- and then they’d fuck for hours, probably, until Ancel couldn’t walk straight. Fuck.

He really needed to stop thinking about that before he made a fool of himself.

He was still fussing with his hair when the knock came at the door and he practically fell over himself in his rush to answer it.

“Ancel,” Berenger said in that way he had. He was dressed much like the last night- black jeans, button down shirt, brown leather jacket. He was wearing classy leather shoes now, also brown. One of these days Ancel was going to buy him a decent coat. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Ancel said, stepping out and closing the door behind himself before taking Berenger’s arm.

“Are you extremely drunk?” Berenger said with a wry smile, not moving to pull away.

“My shoes,” Ancel said, “are very precarious. It’s not safe.”

“I see,” Berenger said, still smiling.

The theatre turned out to be pretty close to the studio, close enough to walk. It was closed, but Berenger pulled out a set of keys, unlocking the front door. Ancel looked around the hushed entrance hall, imagining it full of well-dressed people talking quietly amongst themselves. 

The floor was patterned marble, the ceiling decorated with hammered brass ceiling tiles and crown molding. The ticket counter was to the right, to the left was a set of low tables where they’d serve refreshments at the intermission. There’d be champagne and toast points topped with caviar and smoked fish, maybe pretty little berry pastries and other dainties.

Berenger led the way to the main theater doors, heavy tall things made of brass and decorated with relief carvings of dancers. Berenger pushed one open and Ancel stepped into the giant theatre, looking around in awe.

The theatre was dark except for a single spotlight pointed at the stage, but that was enough to take in the feeling of grandeur. There were rows and rows of seats, upholstered in red velvet. The stage was framed by ornate columns gilded in gold. There was a mural on the ceiling- chubby cherubs frolicking among the clouds.

“Wow,” Ancel whispered, looking around. There were _so many seats._ He’d never performed for an audience this big before. He felt an uncharacteristic twinge of nerves as he thought about performing in front of so many people. “Oh my god.”

“Nervous?” Berenger asked.

“Yes,” Ancel said, flushing. It felt wrong to admit it. Trying to lie about it felt even more wrong.

“Don’t be,” Berenger said, taking his hand and leading him down the main aisle towards the orchestra pit. “You’ll be a triumph.” He said it with conviction, like stating a fact. Ancel felt warm all over at the knowledge that Berenger believed in him. Really believed in him.

“This is where I’ll be sitting,” Berenger said, tapping the back of a chair in the front row, just to the left of the aisle. “Auguste will be next to me, and next to him, Kashel.

“Come on,” Berenger continued, easily pulling himself up over the railing separating the orchestra pit from the audience and hopping inside. He turned and raised his arms and Ancel followed, Berenger catching him around the waist and gently lowering him down.

“This is where Parsins will stand,” he said, pointing to the raised platform for the conductor. “They’ve been practicing here for the past week while the stagehands finished the sets. He’s been complaining nonstop about the noise.” He took Ancel’s hand again and led him past all the chairs and through a door that led backstage. There was a dark passage, stairs. They emerged into a dimly lit corridor lined with doors.

“This is your dressing room,” Berenger said, pointing to a door. There was already a gold plaque on it reading- _Ancel Sanpelier._

Berenger opened the door and turned on the light. The room was bigger than Ancel had expected, with a well lighted dressing mirror. There was a rack inside, and hanging off it- his costumes. There was the outfit from the first act, and the one from the second. The veil had its own hanger, glittering faintly in the low lighting.

There was a couch and a few end tables set up around the room. Every surface held empty ornate vases.

“Why the vases?” Ancel asked, looking around the room in awe.

“For all the flowers you’re going to get from your adoring fans.”

“Oh,” Ancel whispered, imagining the room full of sweet smelling flowers. 

“Come along,” Berenger said, leading him onwards. He pointed out the other dressing rooms- for Nicaise, Lazar, the other dancers. The quiet space seemed oddly alive, like it was waiting. Waiting to be filled up with light and joy, with bustle and dance. Waiting for _him._

“The stage,” Berenger said at last, still holding Ancel’s hand. There were thick velvet curtains to either side, pulled back for now. There was a thinner curtain too- translucent silk painted with the intricate image of a village- the first scene of the first act.

Berenger pulled it aside so Ancel could step past, moving to stand in the center of the stage so he could look out at all the empty seats.

Berenger stopped close beside him, setting his hands on Ancel’s waist.

“They’re going to love you,” he murmured into Ancel’s ear. “They’re going to applaud so loudly that people will hear it out on the street outside. I can hear it now. Can you?”

Ancel’s breath caught in his throat as he imagined it. “Yes,” he whispered at last. He felt giddy, his heart beating so hard he could feel it throughout his whole body.

“Still feeling nervous?” Berenger asked.

Ancel turned to face him, smiling so widely his face hurt. “No,” he said and wrapped his arms around Berenger’s shoulders, pressing his face against his neck and breathing deep.

He felt amazing.

* * *

Dinner with Berenger was painfully platonic, which was just- horrible, basically. Ancel felt keyed up, nearly vibrating out of his skin. First the fateful meeting at the pool, then the theatre. He was half hard practically all night.

Eventually Berenger walked him home, and when Ancel invited him inside he only smiled and shook his head.

“Good night, Ancel,” he said as he stepped away, heading back into the elevator.

Ancel watched the numbers lighting up before groaning in disappointment and heading inside to watch T.V. and mope.

On monday they started rehearsals on stage with the orchestra. The first day was a disaster as they tried to put together all the moving parts, but under Berenger’s steady guidance they were soon a well-oiled machine and Ancel found himself looking forward to the dress rehearsal on friday.

When the day came he was a bundle of nerves as he put on his costume in his fancy new dressing room. He did his makeup and stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment afterwards. This was it- the moment it all started to feel real. He was _Giselle._

Ancel didn’t smoke anymore, but he still liked the quiet ritual of it. Once he was ready he went outside through the stage door to spend five minutes alone and center himself.

Except he wasn’t alone. There was someone waiting for him outside, an older man in a long brown coat.

“Ancel,” he said with an oily smirk.

“Louans,” Ancel said, his heart pounding.

“I was wondering where you’d run off to. And here you are- dancing for De Vere.”

“What are you doing here,” Ancel bit out, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Just came to see your dress rehearsal,” Louans said, still smiling unpleasantly. “I missed you. Did you miss me?”

“No,” Ancel said. He turned to leave but Louans slammed his hand against the door, keeping it shut.

“What an unwelcoming way to treat a past lover,” Louans said, his breath over the back of Ancel’s neck making his skin crawl. He shuddered, closing his eyes.

“I heard you got the lead,” Louans continued. “Did you suck Berenger’s cock for that role? Or did you let him fuck you, instead? You know I would have given you the lead in Swan Lake if you’d just bent over and spread your pretty little ass-”

“I have to go,” Ancel bit out, forcefully yanking the door open.

“I’ll be watching,” Louans said as Ancel slipped back into the building.

For a second he was sure that Louans would follow, but he found himself in the dark corridor alone. He was unsettled as he made his way to the stage.

“What’s the matter with you?” Nicaise demanded when Ancel took his place in the wings. “We’re about to start.”

“Nothing,” Ancel said, trying to forget about the encounter. It was fine- he was fine. So what if Louans was watching? It was fine. It _was._ If only he could settle his racing heart, everything would be fine.

“Places,” Orlant called out.

Everyone moved to take their starting places on the stage, Ancel walking with them. He could hear the orchestra warming up and tried to will himself into calmness. He couldn’t fuck up the dress rehearsal.

The orchestra fell into silence and Ancel forced himself to take a few deep breaths. The heavy velvet curtains parted, leaving only the translucent silk between the dancers and the audience. The lights were on, but Ancel could still make out the seats past them.

He looked to the front row and saw Auguste and Kashel, Laurent and Damianos. There were a few other people there too, reporters and industry professionals, a few more dancers and directors from other companies. The seat reserved for Berenger was empty. Where was Berenger?

Ancel felt panic rising up and threatening to choke him as he tried to find Louans, but he didn’t see him.

Parsins tapped his baton on his music stand and raised his arms, staring down at his orchestra. There was a moment of stillness before he moved, and the first strains of the opening music rang out.

Ancel was frozen as he watched, bile rising in his throat.

The main doors to the theater opened and Berenger walked in, his steps silent as he walked down the center aisle to take his seat. Auguste grinned and leaned in to whisper something into Berenger’s ear. Berenger whispered something back before looking up. He met Ancel’s eyes and smiled, giving him a little nod.

Louans was still nowhere to be seen.

Something in Ancel’s chest loosened and he could _breathe_ again. He managed a small smile of his own. The gauzy silk curtain with the village scene painted on it lifted and the ballet began.

It was oddly easy after that. Ancel let himself get lost in the music and the dancing, the spectacle of it all. Everyone was in their costumes and the lights were so bright that Ancel couldn’t make out the audience anymore. But he knew Berenger was out there, sitting in the front row in the seat just to the left of the aisle, watching. Somehow that was enough.

The first act went smoothly and Ancel let out a sigh of relief as he went back to his dressing room.

The costume for the second act was all white, a glittery leotard with whisps of translucent silk attached at the shoulders. There was a translucent veil too, one panel at the front and one at the back, so he’d have full range of motion for his arms. Ancel sat at his dressing table and let his hair down, combing through it. It wasn’t the most practical hairstyle, but the visual impact would be striking. He and the other dancers would be all in white, his hair the only color on the stage aside from Count Albrécht’s muted earth tone costume.

He stared into the mirror, the veil in his hands as he let himself enjoy the picture.

Ancel startled when the door opened, afraid that-

But it was only Berenger and Ancel relaxed.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No,” Berenger said. “I just wanted to check in on you, and bring you this.” In his hand he held a single red rose, the thorns carefully clipped away from the stem. “The first flower of the season. It’s tradition at De Vere to give it to the lead during the dress rehearsal.”

“Tradition,” Ancel repeated, his heart flipping over pleasantly. “Is that so.”

“It is now,” Berenger said, dropping the rose into the cut crystal vase on the dressing table before he turned to go. “Don’t rush the adagio, and-”

“-deepen the penché,” Ancel echoed with a grin.

* * *

The second act was a masterpiece, a _triumph._

Maybe the rose was some sort of magic, because when Ancel danced with Lazar all he could think about was Berenger.

It went perfectly, without a single hitch or stumble. At the end of it Ancel was grinning as he panted, staring out into the audience.

There was a faint scattering of applause, nothing like what it would sound like when the audience was full, but it still felt like victory.

The orchestra made a racket as they put away their instruments, and past it all Ancel could hear Auguste laughing, no doubt congratulating Berenger on all his hard work.

The scant audience members filed out until it was just the cast- most of them sitting down on the stage by then, and Berenger, who’d climbed part of the way up the barrier of the orchestra pit so he could speak to them.

“That was excellent,” he said. “There’s just a few tweaks we still need to make, a few details to iron out-”

“Mister Berenger,” someone said and Berenger turned.

Ancel squinted, raising his hand up to shield his eyes from the spotlights. He wasn’t sure how to interpret the sight of two police officers in full uniform coming down the aisle.

Lazar snorted beside him.

“Officer Jord,” Berenger said evenly, slipping off the barrier to stand on the ground. “Thank you for waiting until the end of rehearsal.”

The man who was apparently officer Jord sighed in exasperation.

“What’s going on?” Ancel asked.

“What is it this time?” Lazar yelled out and most of the dancers in the company laughed.

Jord looked up at the stage, clearly annoyed. “Assault and battery,” he said evenly. “A man named Louans filed a report.”

Ancel’s blood ran cold at the mention of Louans. Was he trying to sabotage the production by filing some bogus claim against Berenger? Was he trying to get back at Ancel for leaving his company so abruptly for De Vere? That was just the sort of cruel petty thing he would do.

“I never caught his name,” Berenger said. 

“Apparently he caught your fist,” Jord said. “Unless your version of events is different?”

“No,” Berenger said. Ancel’s mouth dropped open in shock as he watched Berenger grab his coat from where it was draped over the back of his seat and put it on. “Are you going to cuff me?”

Jord sighed heavily, raising his hands to rub at his temples. “Yes. It’s standard procedure, as you well know.”

Berenger silently held out his wrists and Ancel watched in disbelief as Jord handcuffed him.

“Wait-” he said, standing.

“Rehearsals are as scheduled tomorrow,” Berenger called out as the cops led him away. “Lazar-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lazar yelled after him. “I know what to do.”

Kallias laughed and started to clap, the rest of the company joining him like this was some sort of performance and not their _director_ being _arrested._

“Who the fuck is Louans?” Nicaise asked.

“He- he’s my last director,” Ancel managed. “Why are you all- Berenger just got _arrested!”_

“He gets arrested at least once per season,” Lazar said, patting Ancel’s shoulder. “Last time it was for chasing off Erasmus’ stalker.”

“The time before that it was Kallias’ abusive boyfriend-” Erasmus volunteered.

“And before that it was some jerk that got handsy at the bar with Nicaise,” Isander said.

“Before that-” Lazar started.

“Shut up!” Ancel interrupted, scrambling to his feet. “Where are they taking him? We have to-”

“Easy, Red,” Lazar said soothingly. “I’ll call Auguste to go bail him out, like always.”

“How long will that take?” Ancel demanded. He was furious that no one was taking _Berenger_ being _arrested_ as seriously as he was. 

“He’s going to be fine,” Lazar said, patting him on the shoulder. “Auguste will probably let him stew a bit and then-”

“I’m going,” Ancel said firmly.

“Red,” Lazar said, but Ancel was already rushing backstage to change into street clothes and grab his coat before heading outside.

He hailed a passing cab and headed to the police station. He couldn’t believe Berenger had gotten _arrested._ Apparently for hitting Louans. That explained why he hadn’t been in the audience, and why Berenger had come in late. They must have been- _talking._

Ancel shuddered, his gut heavy with nausea. Things with Berenger had been going so well. He really thought that Berenger was starting to look at him differently, to appreciate him, maybe even respect him. After hearing what Louans- _why_ did it have to be _Louans-_ had to say, all that respect would be gone.

Fuck. The things he’d done while he’d been in Louans’ company, whoring himself out for better roles...

Berenger would think he was disgusting.

Ancel walked into the police station in a daze, making for the front desk where he hoped someone could help him. It seemed to take hours of being shuffled from officer to officer, and then he was finally standing in front of a bored-looking older woman sitting behind a counter.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, not looking up from playing some game on her phone.

“I’m here to post bail for John Berenger,” Ancel said, his hands clammy and shaking with nerves. He could only wait as she shuffled around paperwork for ages before handing over something like a receipt for him to sign.

He numbly gave her his bank card and then there was nothing to do but wait. Ancel paced nervously, hugging his middle in the hopes that the nausea would finally go away.

“Ancel?”

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned to see Berenger walking out of a side door accompanied by officer Jord. Ancel didn’t know if he felt better or worse seeing Berenger in front of him. All he could think about was Louans, and what he might have said.

“Ancel,” Berenger repeated. “You didn’t have to come. You didn’t use your own money, did you?”

“He did,” the bored-looking woman said.

“How much was it?” Berenger asked. “I’ll pay you back.”

Ancel couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“The usual,” the woman said.

“Thank you,” Berenger said, sparing her a brief glance before frowning at Ancel. “Are you alright? You look pale.”

Ancel took a deep breath, trying to steel himself. “I don’t know what he told you,” he said, the words coming out in a rush. His voice was trembling but he had to just- get it out there. “I- it’s true I might have… done things… but- but that’s in the past. And I- I haven’t been- been- fucking around or- And I- I don’t want you looking at me differently. I just-”

“Oh, Ancel,” Berenger said, warm and fond. He stepped closer and pulled Ancel into his arms, effectively ending his senseless babbling. “Of course I’m not going to look at you differently.”

Ancel shivered, closing his eyes and pressing closer into Berenger’s warmth, clutching at the back of his jacket.

“This is all very touching,” Jord said from somewhere close by. “But please leave now.”

“We’re leaving,” Berenger said, pulling back. He offered Ancel his arm, his lips quirked up slightly. Ancel took it, dizzy with relief.

They walked out of the station together and waited on the street for a cab.

“You still have the rose,” Berenger said mildly.

“Oh,” Ancel said, looking down to see he was holding it. 

He must have grabbed it from his dressing room without realizing. He remembered the look in Berenger’s eyes when he’d given it to him. He’d looked so proud. And that must have been after his confrontation with Louans. So maybe he was telling the truth and Ancel didn’t need to be worried about things changing between them after all.

“It’s the first of the season,” Ancel said at last. “I was going to put it on my nightstand. It’s tradition.”

“I see,” Berenger said with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the pic is on tumblr [HERE](https://barbitone.tumblr.com/post/190783143740/ko-fi-society6-commission-prices-vary-ask), please reblog, don't repost :)


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Rehearsals proceeded smoothly as they hurtled towards opening night.

When Ancel had imagined himself in the lead role, he’d thought only of the glitz and the glamor, the fame and glory. He’d thought about thunderous applause, gifts from his admirers, glowing reviews in the papers. He’d thought about his name listed first in the program, his smiling photo at the very top of the cast page.

He’d never thought about the other side- the fact that the production rested on _his_ performance. The closer they got to opening night, the more jittery he grew with nerves. What if it was a disaster? What if he ruined his only chance at success?

The night before he was an utter wreck. As the night grew later he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. He headed downstairs to the empty gym for a furious session on the exercise bike, hoping to tire himself out. It did no good, so he took a luxurious shower and put on his favorite pajamas- silk shorts and a silk tanktop trimmed in lace- before lying in bed staring up at the ceiling.

He couldn’t stop picturing the coming day- _opening night._ He couldn’t stop picturing himself failing, falling, missing an important cue.

“Fuck,” Ancel groaned, glancing over at his clock. It was almost midnight. He had to get some sleep before tomorrow or he really would ruin everything. But it was hopeless.

He turned on his bedside lamp only to see the rose Berenger had given him, standing in a thin glass vase on his nightstand. It was still fresh and blooming, not having lost a single petal. Ancel bit his lip as he considered Berenger, the way he’d calmed his nerves back when they’d first visited the theatre.

Maybe it would help to see him, and he was so close- just upstairs.

But it was crazy, wasn’t it? It was so late.

Ancel found himself standing and putting on slippers and a satin dressing gown, grabbing his keys on the way out the door. He’d just- knock and see. Maybe Berenger was out, or already asleep. 

It couldn’t hurt to knock.

Before he knew it he was in the elevator, going up to the fifteenth floor. He exited into a small elevator landing and found himself in front of a single door. This was probably stupid. His nerves ratcheted up a notch as he stepped forward and knocked.

He didn’t have to wait long for the door to open. He swallowed nervously as he stared at Berenger in the doorway. He looked like he did when they danced- his hair disheveled and his cheeks a little flushed. He was barefoot and in a pair of clinging track pants along with a tight black tank top.

“Ancel,” he said, his voice low and warm. “Is something the matter?”

Ancel shrugged, looking away. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Pre-show jitters, I guess. Can I come in?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Berenger said, even as he moved back from the door in silent invitation.

“I’m not going to _try_ anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Ancel said, stepping past him. He looked around curiously at the spacious apartment. There was an elegant kitchen to his left, a large living room to the right. The furniture was modern and tasteful. There was a door that led to a dark patio, and a hallway that probably led to the bedroom.

“I only meant, I think my method of dealing with pre-show jitters may make yours worse,” Berenger said. He smiled and looked over at the T.V. mounted on the living room wall. There was a paused youtube video pulled up on the giant screen, and when Ancel read the title of it he couldn’t help laughing.

“You’re watching _Fail Saga- Ballet Fail Compilation?”_ Ancel demanded. _“That’s_ how you get past nerves? Watching other people fail?”

“Sometimes I watch myself fail, too,” Berenger said with a wry smile.

Ancel looked to the right of the screen to the queued videos. Next up was _Fail Compilation- Vaslav Varenne._

“Oh my god,” Ancel said with a giggle. “You’re serious.”

“Very,” Berenger said. “Are you sure you want to stay? It’s not for the faint of heart.”

“I definitely want to watch the fail compilation of Vaslav Varenne,” Ancel said.

“Drink?” Berenger offered. Ancel could see he was partaking as well- there was a half drunk glass of whiskey standing on a coaster on the coffee table. “There’s whiskey and scotch, wine. Or tea. Hot cocoa?”

“Could I have a hot cocoa with some scotch?” Ancel asked tentatively.

“Of course,” Berenger said, moving into the kitchen to prepare the drink. Ancel explored a bit while he waited, looking through the bookshelves built into the wall to either side of the T.V. There was a lot of classic poetry and leather bound tomes of world renowned titles. There was a whole shelf of glossy photo books about dance, all with sensual covers, usually featuring two or more men.

Ancel grinned and went back to the books, reading the spines more carefully. Berenger had all the most famously homoerotic classics known to mankind, along with the full works of Oscar Wilde and an entire shelf dedicated to Greek mythology. And then of course there were the blatantly gay romance novels that had _very_ unambiguous covers.

“I can’t believe I ever thought you were straight,” Ancel said when he heard Berenger returning.

“Why would you think I was straight?”

Ancel laughed and turned to the couch, where Berenger was already sitting with his glass of whiskey. He’d brought over a cup of cocoa and a fluffy blanket.

“Don’t worry, it was only for a second or two,” Ancel said, getting comfortable on the couch and wrapping the blanket around himself before reaching for the cocoa. It was delicious, with the perfect amount of liquor.

“Alright?” Berenger asked.

“Perfect,” Ancel said, smiling back at him. “Let the fail begin.”

Berenger turned on the youtube video, which turned out to be funny instead of horrific, like Ancel had expected. Half the instances were during performances- and mostly the performers just got up and picked up where they’d left off, the moment smoothed over. Half the incidents were mishaps during practice, which Ancel had suffered plenty of himself.

For some reason the video made him feel less nervous about opening night. And then it was over and _Fail Compilation- Vaslav Varenne_ began.

The first video was Berenger at the tender age of seventeen, tripping over himself during a performance of swan lake. Then he was older and in some ridiculous feathered costume. The feathers caught on the costume of his partner and they spent a few frantic moments trying to get disentangled. It went on like that- clips from practice and performances, even a few auditions. By the end of it Ancel was laughing hysterically and even Berenger had managed a chuckle or two.

As the videos went on they somehow ended up drifting closer together on the couch until Ancel was leaning against Berenger’s side and progressively growing more drowsy. He must have nodded off at some point because the next thing he knew was the familiar sensation of being carried in Berenger’s arms and being set down somewhere soft.

He roused as Berenger tucked a blanket around him and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Ancel whispered, reaching out to take his hand.

Berenger looked down at him quizzically.

“Stay?” Ancel asked. “Please.”

Berenger seemed uncertain, so Ancel tugged on his hand. “Please,” he repeated. “I feel better when I’m with you.”

“Alright,” Berenger said at last and Ancel let him go.

He snuggled into the blankets as Berenger moved around the dark room, waiting for the telltale dip in the mattress and the whisper of cloth over cloth as Berenger climbed under the sheets.

Ancel smiled as he pressed his face into Berenger’s soft pillow and closed his eyes.

* * *

Ancel woke in an unfamiliar bed with an unfamiliar weight resting over his waist, a strange warm presence at his back. He would have been alarmed if it weren’t for the smell that even his half awake mind could recognize- fresh linen and Berenger’s cologne.

Ancel didn’t dare move a muscle, afraid of waking Berenger who currently lay draped over his back. The gray light of dawn was just starting to sneak past the shutters, illuminating the room. Berenger’s _bedroom._

For all the sex he’d had, he’d never _slept_ with anyone before, never really wanted to. But this felt so perfect- warm and safe, cozy. Carefully, he raised his hand to cover Berenger’s, resting over his heart. Berenger made a quiet sleepy sound and pressed closer. Ancel could feel Berenger’s rhythmic breathing against the back of his neck and it was somehow the best thing in the world.

Falling asleep again was surprisingly easy, and the next time he woke he was alone in bed with the smell of coffee and bacon drifting through the air.

He rose with a yawn, pulling his satin robe closed over his chest. He padded into the main room barefoot to see Berenger flipping bacon over the stove, dressed in his typical casual ensemble with the addition of a plain black apron.

“Is there tea?” Ancel asked, sitting at the breakfast counter.

“I could make some,” Berenger said without missing a beat. “What do you usually have for breakfast?”

“Granola and yoghurt,” Ancel said. It was the easiest breakfast to make back when he was living in an apartment where the stove only worked half the time. “I wouldn’t mind some eggs and bacon, though.”

He watched as Berenger cooked, filling up the electric kettle between managing the eggs and bacon. Before long there was a delicious plate of breakfast before him along with a cup of tea and Ancel could only smile. Was this what having a boyfriend was like? Obviously Berenger wasn’t his _boyfriend,_ but…

But they were close, weren’t they? They were almost there. They’d slept in the same bed last night curled together and- and if it weren’t for Berenger’s weird hangups they’d totally be fucking. 

“I have to go down to the theatre soon,” Berenger said as they ate. “I have to take care of a few things. You can stay here if you like.”

“Can I come with you?” Ancel asked.

“Probably not dressed like that,” Berenger said with a smile.

“Oh, definitely not,” Ancel said, plucking at his lacy pajamas. “I’m way overdressed.”

That earned him a startled laugh that sounded so heartfelt that Ancel looked down with a blush, warm all over. After breakfast Ancel went home to change and they met in the lobby to walk to the theatre together.

Ancel trailed after Berenger as he talked to the stagehands in charge of the lights and inspected the sets, the stage, the dressing rooms, everything. Parsins was there too, directing the set up of the orchestra pit with a frown. Berenger spoke to him about some painfully technical music thing while Ancel found himself staring at the stage. _His_ stage, for his debut.

Before much longer the other dancers started trickling in, all jittery with nerves. There was a strange feeling in the theater- shivering anticipation slowly building. Time seemed to be moving more quickly than normal as they did their warmups, Ancel joining them. It seemed like the minutes were simply slipping away.

Soon, much too soon, Berenger gave them a quick pep talk and it was time to get dressed. Ancel’s hands were shaking faintly as he sat doing his hair and makeup in his dressing room before putting on his costume for the first act.

Lazar fetched him when it was time.

“Count Albrécht,” Ancel greeted him with a curtsy.

“My dear Giselle,” Lazar said. “Are you ready?”

Ancel grinned. “Born ready.”

Lazar snorted out a laugh at the cheesy line, leading Ancel towards the stage. The heavy velvet curtain was closed, the gauzy silk with the town scene on it lowered. Ancel and the other dancers took their places while Lazar and the dancers playing his hunting party stayed back in the wings.

Ancel’s heart was pounding as he listened to the orchestra tuning and warming up, and beyond that- the steady chatter of _people._ Hundreds and hundreds of people, maybe thousands. Could the theatre seat thousands? His nerves ratcheted up a notch and he forced himself to breathe, thinking of a single seat- front row, just to the left of the aisle.

The orchestra quieted and the audience did too. Ancel could hear a man’s voice speaking, welcoming the audience to the debut of De Vere’s Giselle. Auguste? Ancel wasn’t sure, he’d never heard the man speak.

Once he finished there was absolute silence.

The heavy velvet curtain opened with a whisper of cloth. The spotlights were bright and Ancel knew that for now the audience could only see the town scene, not the dancers waiting frozen behind it. The opening overture began and Ancel closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. The lights shifted, spotlights fading out as the lights behind the stage faded in.

There were a few excited titters in the audience as the dancers finally came into view.

Ancel looked out into the grand theatre and caught sight of Berenger- sitting exactly where he said he would be. He was wearing a tux, his hair combed neatly. He caught Ancel’s gaze and nodded in encouragement. Ancel smiled back at him.

The silk curtain lifted and it felt like taking a deep breath in preparation for jumping off a cliff. It felt exhilarating.

The ensemble danced, playing out vignettes of small town life, Ancel joining them as he moved from group to group. He felt powerful and unstoppable, beautiful. He felt like a star.

And then Lazar and his huntsmen entered and they did their first duet. It was just like they’d practiced, perfect and easy. Ancel got lost in the music and the dance, the audience far away.

Before he knew it the first act was over and the curtains were closing to enthusiastic applause. 

Ancel laughed, giddy, as Lazar picked him up and spun him around.

“Get off!” Ancel managed. _“Some_ of us have a costume change.”

“Run along then,” Lazar said, putting him down so he could head back to his dressing room.

Ancel hurried to change into his white costume for the second act, then let down his hair and brushed it out.

Just as he was about to put on the veil the door opened and he jerked, looking over.

But it was only Berenger, smiling as he walked closer holding a thin case roughly the size of a hardbound book.

“Ancel,” he said, his voice warm. “The first act was perfection.”

“Of course it was,” Ancel said, smiling back.

“I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans regarding the costume.”

“What?!” Ancel asked, his heart racing. “Don’t tell me it’s a different veil, it’s enough of a pain in the ass to deal with this one-”

“No veil,” Berenger said. He set the case down on the dressing table and put his warm hands on Ancel’s shoulders. “Aren’t you curious to open it?”

“Alright,” Ancel said, opening the case. He couldn’t help a gasp.

There was something akin to a circlet inside, glittering with diamonds. _Real_ diamonds, he could tell just by looking. It must have cost a fortune. He couldn’t quite bring himself to touch it and Berenger leaned over to lift it from the black velvet.

He brushed Ancel’s hair back from his forehead tenderly before setting the circlet over his brow and pinning it into place.

“Oh,” Ancel whispered, staring at himself in the mirror, at Berenger standing behind him. “It’s- it’s-”

“Perfect,” Berenger said. “Only the best for my Giselle.”

Ancel raised his shaking hand up to touch it in disbelief. “Oh, wow. I- Aren’t you afraid I won’t give it back?”

“You don’t have to give it back,” Berenger said, still smiling. “It’s yours to keep.”

 _“Mine?”_ Ancel asked incredulously, turning to stare up at Berenger in disbelief. “It can’t be- you’re not- you’re _serious?”_

“Yes,” Berenger said simply.

Ancel flushed. The circlet was worth a fortune. No one just _gave_ that sort of thing away. “What- what do I have to do to- to-”

“Be the best,” Berenger said, like it was obvious. “That’s all I’ve ever asked of you.”

Ancel didn’t know what to say to that. It was too good to be true. But that was Berenger- too good to be true but somehow true anyway.

Berenger squeezed his shoulder briefly before turning and slipping away.

When it was time Ancel walked back to the stage in a daze. He felt like he was walking on clouds.

The hardest thing about the second act was forcing himself not to smile during it. His dance with Lazar was the best it had ever been, each motion as easy as breathing. The audience was perfectly silent through it all, enraptured to the point where not a single person even dared cough or fiddle with their program.

When it came to an end the audience broke out into thunderous applause and Ancel was flushed and giddy as the cast took their bows.

Berenger had been right. He was a triumph.

* * *

Ancel was still giddy when he returned to his dressing room. He paused when he opened the door, blinking in confusion. The room was filled with flowers, beautiful lavish bouquets in every vase that had been empty just an hour ago. There were still more laid out on the tables, the couch, even the floor.

There was a cut crystal vase on his dressing table containing a single red rose like the one Berenger had given him at the dress rehearsal. Somehow that one was the most beautiful of all.

Ancel was too excited to sit down. He didn’t change out of his costume, he knew how these things went. There would be visitors- sponsors and other admirers, all clamoring to see him. But maybe Berenger would come first, to congratulate him.

There was a knock on the door and Ancel couldn’t help a small frown. It wasn’t Berenger. He never knocked, maybe as petty retaliation for the fact that Ancel never did either.

“Come in,” Ancel called out.

The door opened and Auguste stepped in, smiling widely.

“Mister De Vere,” Ancel said in surprise.

“Just Auguste, please,” Auguste said. “You were amazing, Ancel! Although I should have known you would be.”

He moved to take Ancel’s hand, giving it a firm shake. Ancel was speechless, which didn’t seem to matter because Auguste kept talking without any need for his input.

“You know what Johnnie said to me when we were watching Swan Lake? As soon as he saw you in the ensemble, he turned to me and said _that’s my Giselle.”_ Auguste laughed, full throated and warm. “I stood outside the stage door with him for the first twenty minutes, you know. Can you believe it- I told him it wasn’t worth waiting! But that’s why he runs the show and I just sign the checks.

“By the time he joined Kashel and me for drinks I wished he hadn’t- all he could talk about was you. Your perfect posture, the line of your neck, it was all Ancel this and Ancel that. What a dork. It didn’t get any better when he started drinking, either. I think there was a whole lecture about your elegant fingers. If he’d had time, he probably would have made a slide show.”

“I-” Ancel managed. _Johnnie?_ “What?”

“That’s Johnnie for you,” Auguste continued fondly. “He’s really got an eye for these things.”

“Is he coming?” Ancel asked.

“He’s with the ensemble during the meet and greet,” Auguste said. “You know how he is.”

“I- yes?” Ancel said weakly.

There was another knock on the door and Auguste grinned. “You know how these things go, right? Just scratch your nose if you want me to hustle someone out.”

“Alright?” Ancel said, confused.

Auguste went to open the door, laughing as he shook someone’s hand and ushered them inside. “Droet!” he said. “Good of you to come.”

“This is your lead?” the well-dressed man, Droet, said as he came in. He had a young man on his arm, draped in diamonds. Ancel noted with some glee that the man’s diamonds paled in comparison to his own.

“Oh yes,” Auguste said. “Our rising star, Ancel Sanpelier.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Droet said with an oily smirk. “Such lovely legs. What I wouldn’t do to have those wrapped around me.”

Ancel just barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes, pretending as though he hadn’t heard _that_ one a million times before. But he knew how the game was played, so he schooled his features into a sly smirk and cocked his hip a little, making sure his lovely legs were shown off to best advantage.

“Hah!” Auguste chuckled and set his hand heavily on Droet’s shoulder. “Good one! You’re lucky Berenger wasn’t here to hear it, you know how he gets.” He managed to make the statement vaguely threatening even with a smile over his face.

“Quite,” Droet said, his expression souring. “Well. Congratulations, Ancel. Now I’d love to give my regards to your ghost queen.”

“Of course,” Auguste said pleasantly. “Nicaise is in Lazar’s dressing room, so you can speak with two leads at once.”

“I see,” Droet said, souring further.

“Thank you for your patronage,” Auguste said. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

Droet and his boy toy breezed out as it finally dawned on Ancel what was happening. Lazar was watching over Nicaise and Berenger was supervising the ensemble. “Berenger sent you to chaperone me, didn’t he.”

“He didn’t _send_ me,” Auguste said. “We have a system. It seemed natural when my brother was the lead, but it makes the most sense this way anyway. Theoretically I am the face of this company, stands to reason I’d be with the lead.”

Ancel stared at him in disbelief and Auguste leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Some of these rich assholes think they can… take liberties. You know?”

“Yes,” Ancel said, thinking of all the times some smirking wrinkly bastard in a rolex had groped his ass backstage. “Isn’t that the point?” 

That was just part of the game- a little perk for the investors. A quick squeeze here and there, a sleazy pickup line or two, and everyone’s happy. That’s how you got ahead- getting investors and directors to like you.

“No,” Auguste said, serious for once. “Not at De Vere. At least…” He winced, looking away. “Not anymore,” he added darkly.

Before Ancel could ask about it there was another knock and Auguste was smiling again. “Ready?”

Ancel nodded and they went through the whole thing again. Auguste was friendly and vaguely threatening, no one tried to touch Ancel even once. Some of the visitors weren’t investors, but friends. Laurent came around with Damianos to congratulate him and Kashel dropped in to shake his hand and give Auguste a quick kiss before leaving. Apparently she was with Berenger keeping an eye on the ensemble.

“She’s got connections to the Vaskian crime family,” Auguste muttered to Ancel between guests. “She’s terrifying. No one will fuck with her.”

Ancel giggled, not entirely sure this was real life. He was the lead of a prominent ballet company and he didn’t have to let anyone grope him. He’d never thought dancing could be this good.

Eventually the parade of visitors came to an end and Auguste stretched with a yawn. “Bed time, I think. You should probably head home and get some rest before tomorrow’s show.”

“Right,” Ancel said, the high of the night fading. Berenger hadn’t come around.

“You did well tonight,” Auguste said, patting him on the shoulder. “Do it the same way every night and you’re going to make me very rich and famous.”

Ancel laughed, feeling a bit better.

Auguste turned to go but paused at the door. “He’s going to be on stage right about now. You know. If you wanted to go find him.”

Ancel jerked at the words but Auguste was already gone.

He hurried to change and take off his makeup before grabbing his coat. It was a struggle not to run but he forced himself to walk at a reasonable pace through the corridors towards the stage. He paused in the wings, looking out.

The curtains were open and the backdrop was the last of the show- a magnificent starry night sky. Berenger was standing alone on stage in the single spotlight left on. He was still in his tuxedo with his hands in his pockets, his hair a little mussed after the long day. He was looking out into the empty audience. Ancel recognized the look in his eyes- longing.

He shivered as he walked closer, the low heels of his slippers clicking quietly over the boards of the stage. Berenger didn’t look over as Ancel stopped beside to him, turning to look out at all the empty seats. The theater felt lonely, like it was holding its breath for the next performance.

“Do you miss it?” Ancel asked quietly.

Berenger let out a slow shuddering breath, not looking at him. “Yes,” he said at last. “Wouldn’t you?”

Ancel swallowed, imagining what it would be like to suddenly lose everything he’d ever wanted. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Oh no,” Berenger said. When Ancel looked over at him, he was smiling. “I’m sorry. It’s really not so tragic, and this is meant to be your big night. You were magnificent.”

“I know,” Ancel said, stepping closer to take his hand. “Thanks to you.”

Berenger squeezed slightly, still smiling. Ancel’s heart was racing. This was it, wasn’t it? Finally?

“I think we should head home,” Berenger said.

“Yes,” Ancel agreed easily. He didn’t let go of Berenger’s hand and Berenger made no move to let go of him either.

The streets were cool and quiet, it was nearly midnight.

“You never did tell me about the…” Ancel trailed off. _Accident_ didn’t seem to be the right word for it. Berenger said he’d been attacked.

“No,” Berenger said. For a while he was silent and Ancel didn’t think he was going to continue. Just as he was about to apologize for bringing it up, Berenger spoke. “Before I was the director at De Vere, the job was held by Auguste’s uncle. He was…”

Berenger frowned, his eyes darkening. “He wasn’t a good man. He took advantage of his position, the dancers. Most of them… _young._ Auguste didn’t know. His uncle was good at keeping up appearances. But when I started dancing with the company, I found out the full extent of it.”

“Oh,” Ancel whispered, squeezing Berenger’s hand to prompt him to keep going.

“I went to Auguste. I don’t think he would have believed me if we weren’t so close, but- thank god it didn’t come to that. We worked together to oust his uncle from the company and things got ugly. When he ended up in prison we thought it was over. But he sent some hired goons after me, and… well. Here we are.”

“Oh my god,” Ancel said.

For some reason Berenger laughed. “You should see the other guys,” he said with a wink. “The ones he sent to take out Auguste. They had the misfortune of showing up in the middle of Kashel’s weekly poker game. Sometimes, when I’m feeling down, I imagine the shock those poor sad fucks must have felt at facing down six Vaskian gangsters and Auguste with his antique sword collection.”

Ancel snorted out a laugh, picturing it too. “Auguste has an antique sword collection? And he called _you_ a dork?”

“He called me a what?” Berenger asked with put upon dismay. “Unforgivable!”

By then they’d reached their building and the doorman nodded to them to welcome them inside.

Ancel felt giddy as the elevator took them up to the tenth floor and Berenger walked him to his door.

“Good night, Ancel.”

“Come inside,” Ancel said, his voice coming out breathy as he looked up at Berenger. This was the night. It had to be. So why was Berenger hesitating?

“The jig is up,” Ancel said. “Auguste spilled the beans. I know you want me, so come inside and take me.” He was still holding Berenger’s hand so he tugged a little, pulling him closer.

“We can’t,” Berenger said, raising his free hand to cup the side of Ancel’s face.

“We can,” Ancel insisted. “After tonight’s performance no one will think I didn’t earn the part. No one will think it was because we’re fucking. After tonight- everyone will know that I deserve the lead.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Berenger said, his voice low and warm.

“Then _why,”_ Ancel asked, frustrated nearly to the point of tears.

“If I come inside,” Berenger started, leaning closer so he was practically whispering in Ancel’s ear. “I won’t be able to keep my hands off you. And when I’m done with you, you won’t be able to walk straight, much less dance.”

Ancel shivered, his breath catching in his throat. Fuck.

“We can’t have that, can we,” Berenger said, pulling back. His eyes were dark and glittering mischievously. “We have the theater booked for the rest of the month.”

And he was- he was turning to go back to the elevator!

“You can’t just _say_ something like that and- and- _leave!”_ Ancel exclaimed, grabbing his arm. “We can- for fuck’s sake! We can- we can suck each other off, or- or- jerk off together, or just make out on the couch-”

“Good night, Ancel,” Berenger said with the most infuriating smirk known to mankind and stepped into the elevator.

Ancel was left staring at it long after the doors had closed, shocked and annoyed and turned on beyond belief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the pic on tumblr [HERE](https://barbitone.tumblr.com/post/190862594555/ko-fi-society6-commission-prices-vary-ask) or on twitter [HERE](https://twitter.com/barbitoneart/status/1229135917161512960?s=20)


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Things continued as normal, except for the part where suddenly Ancel needed to fit a lot more jerking off into his schedule.

They had performances every night except Mondays, though sometimes Ancel would get an additional night off whenever Berenger insisted on putting in his understudy- Erasmus. Ancel had grumbled the first time, only settling down when he realized that meant he could watch the show sitting beside Berenger in the dark theatre.

Every so often Berenger would tighten his lips and make a quiet little sound of displeasure. Every time he did it Ancel couldn’t help feeling giddy. He knew what it meant- Berenger was watching Erasmus and thinking of how much better Ancel performed that spin, that jump, that pose.

Still, for the most part the performances consisted of the main cast- and each show was glorious. There were rave reviews in the papers, photos of Ancel and Lazar and Nicaise and group shots, too. They were in the society pages, and in the arts pages, in articles in dancing magazines. Ancel carefully clipped each one, taping them into a journal he’d bought for the purpose.

It was the most exciting time of his life. He never wanted it to end, and yet he wanted it to end desperately. Each time he caught and held Berenger’s hot gaze he couldn’t help thinking about what would happen once the show run was over. Once it was over, Berenger would be out of excuses and they’d finally be together just like Ancel had wanted to be for so long now.

Time passed in a whirlwind, and suddenly it was closing night.

Ancel felt a small pang of sorrow as he put on his costume and did his makeup for the last time as Giselle.

By then the company was a well oiled machine, each move second nature. Everything went smoothly right up until the end of his duet with Lazar in the first act. There was a lift, one they’d done hundreds of times. It wasn’t even one of the more difficult ones, but Ancel watched as Lazar abruptly went pale, a muscle in his cheek twitching in something like a wince. He was still smiling but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes anymore.

They kept dancing, and on the next lift Lazar shifted his grip slightly from what it was supposed to be. It was subtle, but Ancel knew him so well by then that it was like a flashing neon sign. It was what Lazar did in rehearsals sometimes, when he was tired and not confident that he’d be able to execute the lift properly. He’d never done it during a performance but Ancel trusted him to know what he was doing. Instead of the lift Lazar stepped back and Ancel did a fouette, and then a modified penché. It wasn’t the correct choreography but by then Ancel knew the ballet and the music so well that it wasn’t difficult to come up with something new on the spot.

The audience was still watching, enraptured. The only one who’d know something was wrong was Berenger, but Ancel couldn’t afford to think about him just then.

The duet ended, the scene continued. Lazar still moved elegantly over the stage but Ancel could see the sweat standing out over his brow, his slightly pinched expression. Eventually he and the rest of the dancers retreated to the wings, leaving Ancel to perform the final solo of the first act alone on stage.

Once he finished and the curtains closed Ancel rushed backstage, not pausing to enjoy the applause like he usually did.

The company was in an uproar of hushed whispers and nervous looks.

“What’s going on?” Ancel asked once he spotted Nicaise.

“I don’t know,” Nicaise said, pale and wide-eyed. “There’s a paramedic in Lazar’s dressing room. I- I don’t think he can continue.”

“Fuck,” Ancel breathed out, storming into Lazar’s dressing room.

It was true- Lazar was laid out on the couch while a paramedic prodded at his hip. Berenger was there too, pacing restlessly.

“-we knew this would happen one day, Johnnie,” Lazar was saying shakily.

“Did it have to be _today?”_ Berenger asked, running his hands through his hair.

“Does that hurt?” the paramedic asked as he did something.

Lazar cursed. “Yes it fucking hurts!”

“Ancel,” Berenger said, noticing him at last. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“What’s going on?” Ancel demanded.

“Hey Red,” Lazar said weakly. “Looks like I have to tap out.”

“Tap _out?”_ Ancel asked, on the verge of panic. “But-”

“Ancel,” Berenger said firmly. “I need you to go get ready for the second act.”

“But- but who’s going to be the Count?” Ancel asked, still shocked that this was happening. Abruptly he realized he had no idea who Lazar’s understudy was. One of the huntsmen, maybe. He’d run through the pas de deux with one of them once or twice. Whoever it was probably knew the choreography. But there was so much more to a spectacular performance than just the choreography.

“Ancel,” Berenger said, walking closer and taking him firmly by the shoulders. “I’m going to take care of it. Right now I need you to trust me and go get ready.”

Ancel nodded numbly, throwing one last glance at Lazar biting the sleeve of his jacket so he wouldn’t scream while the paramedic did… something.

“What’s going on?” Nicaise asked once he’d stepped out into the hall. 

Nicaise looked terrified, his skin tinged green like he was about to throw up. Ancel looked past him to see the rest of the cast staring at him expectantly, fear in their eyes. Ancel felt like he was standing under a spot light, like they were looking to him to have all the answers. Abruptly he realized they were right to- he was the lead. If Berenger couldn’t be out here to calm everybody down, it only made sense that the job would fall to him.

Ancel took a deep breath, in and out. He was good at pretending. Usually he was pretending that he wasn’t disgusted at the thought of sinking to his knees and sucking some sleazy director’s cock, or that he found the old fart groping his ass delightful. This was a different kind of pretending, and it was even easier.

He smirked and set his hands on his hips. “What are you all waiting around for? We’ve already wasted enough of the intermission, everyone who needs to change costume needs to go right now.”

There was a shift in the mood of the crowd, some of the tension bleeding away.

“What about Lazar?” Nicaise demanded. “Is he alright? Who’s going to be the Count?”

“Berenger has it under control,” Ancel said, trying to keep his tone light, like he was stating the obvious. “He said to get ready for the second act, so we all need to go get ready. Alright?”

Kallias was the first to smile and nod, taking Erasmus by the hand and leading him down the corridor towards the dressing room. Isander followed, and then everyone else.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Nicaise whispered. “Bullshit everyone else, but not me. It’s not alright. You’re not the only one with a duet with Lazar. I haven’t practiced with anyone else.”

Ancel hugged him, pressing close despite Nicaise’s gasp of surprise. “Berenger said to trust him,” he said quietly into Nicaise’s ear. “I trust him. Do you?”

Nicaise raised his arms to wrap them around Ancel’s waist, squeezing tightly for a moment before letting go and stepping back.

“Get off,” Nicaise muttered. “I have to go change.”

Ancel laughed and turned to go to his own dressing room. He put on the sparkling white leotard and let down his hair, brushing it out. He felt a pang of regret as he got the diamond circlet out of his drawer and watched the way the diamonds glittered as he turned it over in his hands.

Berenger had visited him during every intermission so far. He’d brushed his hair back and set the circlet over his brow, pinning it into place while they bantered. It had become a comforting routine and Ancel was sad that now, on closing night, he had to do this alone.

But the show must go on. He put on the circlet himself and pinned it into place. 

He knew he was nearly out of time but he paused for a moment to look at himself in the mirror. This was it. His last night as Giselle. He wished he wasn’t alone for this moment, but he knew better than most people that you couldn’t always get what you want.

One more deep breath and he rose, heading to the stage for the last time.

* * *

Ancel opened act two with a solo- Giselle rising from her grave. He still had no idea what would happen, but Berenger had said to trust him, so he went on as though everything was as it should be.

When Nicaise entered the stage as the ghost queen Myrtha, accompanied by his company of ghost maidens, they danced their duet. The uncertainty of what was happening backstage only added to the poignancy of their dance, until it was time for Ancel to retreat to the corner of the stage as he rejected the invitation to join the ghost maidens.

And then it was time for Count Albrécht’s entrance- come to bring flowers to Giselle’s grave.

Ancel waited, looking out into the dark theatre. He couldn’t see what was happening behind him but the orchestra swelled in the way that was meant to cue the Count’s arrival. There were a few murmurs from the audience- perhaps they’d noticed the substitution. But the show went on as normal, so clearly nothing too shocking had happened- like a missing dancer.

Ancel could hear Nicaise’s footsteps as he and the maidens forced the Count to dance to his death. His heart was pounding as he waited for his cue to turn, and finally it came.

With some trepidation he moved, looking back to see-

He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at, at first. There was a man dancing the role of the Count, holding Nicaise’s waist as they turned in a slow circle around each other. He wasn’t wearing the right costume. Instead of forest greens and browns he was in all black. His feet were bare.

He paused and looked up and their eyes met across the stage.

It was Berenger.

Ancel’s breath caught in his throat as he stared. Berenger had his hair slicked back, his eyes lined with black eyeliner. He was wider in the shoulders than Lazar, so of course he couldn’t fit into the Count’s perfectly tailored costume. He was wearing the doublet of one of the huntsmen instead, the leggings of another.

He supported Nicaise in a lift, then a spin. Ancel found himself striding towards them to pull Berenger away possessively. It was in the choreography, but he might have done it anyway in a fit of jealousy.

Of course it was Berenger. Of course he wouldn’t have sent in some understudy that neither Ancel nor Nicaise were comfortable with, not on a night as important as this.

They’d never practiced the duet on the stage, never with the full orchestra, but that didn’t seem to matter. As soon as Ancel felt Berenger’s hands on him everything seemed to slot into place- perfect like it hadn’t been even on his best day with Lazar.

The rest of the world faded away as Ancel went into the adagio, letting Berenger guide and support him just like he’d done in every practice session. He felt full to bursting with exhilaration, his heart pounding with a strange mix of emotions that had warmth blooming through him. He felt invincible.

Dancing had never felt this good, this right. Somehow the fact that there were thousands of people watching only made it better and Ancel threw all of himself into it.

It lasted for ages, the most challenging duet he’d ever danced suddenly seeming easy and natural. Ancel never wanted it to end, but alas- it couldn’t last forever.

The deep purple stage lights illuminating the backdrop shifted to pink to signal the coming dawn, then faded into the gold of the rising sun.

Berenger let his hands drop to his sides and sank to his knees, facing away from the audience as Ancel caressed his cheek one last time before walking slowly backwards towards the backdrop. Count Albrécht was forgiven, saved from being murdered by cruel ghosts. In that forgiveness, Giselle’s curse was broken and she was saved from having to join the spirits of the scorned maidens.

As Ancel retreated, a white translucent curtain lowered to separate him from Berenger and the audience, and then another. To those sitting in the theatre, it would seem as though he was fading away.

There was a third curtain and the spotlight turned bright, hiding him from view and throwing Berenger’s shadow to loom huge over him. The velvet curtains closed and the last orchestral chords faded to nothing.

There was a perfect moment of absolute stillness while Ancel stared, breathing hard as he stood alone in the dark.

Applause rose up like a tsunami of noise and Ancel grinned, feeling tears rising to his eyes. It was over. He’d done it, together with Berenger. They’d finished with their most amazing show yet.

The lights came on backstage and Ancel could only blink as Nicaise laughed and took his hand, drawing him back into the wings.

“That was amazing,” he gushed breathlessly. “You were amazing. We all were. That was-”

Ancel could only pant, trying to catch his breath. The white curtains had been raised again and he hadn’t noticed. The red velvet curtain opened once more as the ensemble went out to take their bows. All he could do was look across the stage at Berenger, waiting in the wings on the other side, watching him.

Nicaise left to take a bow with the other minor characters. The audience was wild with excitement and all Ancel could do was tremble. He watched as Berenger raised his hand and started walking towards him. Ancel matched him step for step.

There were screams and whistles filling the theatre as he and Berenger met in the middle of the stage. Berenger took his hand and led him forward to stand in line with the rest of the dancers, watching as people rose from their seats for a standing ovation.

Ancel laughed, breathless, and squeezed Berenger’s hand. He never wanted to let go.

He turned his head and saw Berenger looking at him fondly, nothing but admiration and awe in his eyes. There were stagehands bringing up bouquets of flowers, cheering rising around them.

Ancel only had eyes for Berenger. Distantly he was aware of the curtain closing once more, muffling some of the noise of the audience. He stepped forward and wrapped his hand around the back of Berenger’s neck, pulling him closer.

Berenger’s lips met his and he gasped, too lost in the kiss to notice anything else. Berenger was kissing him back, passionately and without reservation. Berenger’s hands were sliding down his back to his waist, his ass. Ancel moaned into his mouth. It seemed like the easiest thing in the world to raise his leg and wrap it around Berenger’s thigh.

Berenger moved to support him, lift him. Ancel gasped as he found himself held aloft with his legs wrapped around Berenger’s hips. Berenger was walking, carrying him off somewhere and Ancel pulled back from his mouth just long enough to laugh breathlessly before kissing and biting at Berenger’s neck, his earlobe.

Ancel didn’t know or care where they were going, all he cared about was Berenger, kissing him with abandon. They went through a door and Berenger slammed it shut behind them. Ancel clung to him with all his strength as Berenger moved one arm away from Ancel’s ass just long enough to do- something.

There was a clatter of things falling to the ground, the sound of shattering porcelain, and then Ancel was sitting on a desk, or-

He blinked slowly when Berenger pulled back to catch his breath. They were in Ancel’s dressing room, and Berenger had set him down on his dressing table.

“Get this off,” Ancel muttered, scrambling for the laces of Berenger’s jacket even as Berenger went back to kissing him, hungry and wild as he nipped at Ancel’s lips and coaxed broken moans from him with every touch.

“Fuck,” Ancel hissed, turning away to breathe. He hadn’t made any progress on the jacket at all- the laces were too tight and intricate. “You’re not helping,” he complained as Berenger moved to press hot sucking kisses to his neck.

Berenger laughed, the sound of it going straight to Ancel’s cock. Berenger sounded wild somehow, dark and dangerous in a way that was endlessly delicious.

“I’ll help,” Berenger said, raising one hand to the zipper at Ancel’s back. He pulled it down as Ancel panted against his neck, eyes screwed shut as he tried to focus on the feeling of Berenger pressed against him.

He gasped as cool air hit the bare skin of his back when Berenger pulled open his costume, dragging it down his arms before stepping back and taking him by the hips, pulling him forward until he was standing.

Berenger was still fully dressed as he hooked his fingers into the leotard bunched up around Ancel’s waist and sank to his knees, pulling it the rest of the way down Ancel’s legs and finally, completely off.

“Oh fuck,” Ancel breathed out, staring down at Berenger kneeling before him. He didn’t have time to feel self conscious before Berenger set his hands on Ancel’s hips and took him in his mouth.

Ancel whimpered at the blissful heat enveloping him, reaching down to grab at Berenger’s hair. He wasn’t sure if he wanted him to go faster or slow down. All he knew was that this was the best thing _ever._

“Fuck,” Ancel managed, his heart pounding. “Fuck- you’re good at that.”

Berenger hummed with satisfaction before speeding up and Ancel groaned, throwing his head back. He could see sparks, his head was spinning. He was so close, a few more seconds and he’d be right _there-_

So of course that was when Berenger pulled back. His hands were still on Ancel’s hips and he used them to turn Ancel around, and- yeah. That would be better. Ancel wanted all of him, right now.

Berenger’s hands were on his ass, spreading him open shamelessly. And then his _tongue_ was there, licking him.

“Oh fuck,” Ancel exhaled sharply, his hands balling into fists involuntarily. He could feel Berenger's tongue hot and slick against his hole, eager. It was- it was _filthy._ He was sweaty, and- and- 

Berenger didn’t seem to care at all. Ancel couldn’t believe he’d thought Berenger made love in missionary with the lights off, when apparently he ate ass like a starving man.

When Berenger pulled back just long enough to laugh Ancel realized he might have said that last part out loud.

“Fuck,” Ancel said. “You- you’re a _pervert,_ aren’t you.”

Berenger laughed louder, and then his mouth was back and his fingers were too- slick with lube. Where the fuck did he even get lube from? Ancel wondered how he could have been so wrong and at the same time, so fucking lucky.

When he imagined fucking Berenger it had never been like this- with him bent over his dressing table while Berenger fingered him open, biting at his ass sharply and then _smiling_ against his skin like he enjoyed making Ancel yelp.

Ancel closed his eyes, breathing hard and pressing his forehead to the table while Berenger fucked him with one finger, then two, closing in on his prostate like a heat seeking missile. It was unfair that he was so good at this- no one should be so good at this. Ancel tried to push into his touch, looking for more, but pushing Berenger seemed to do as much good in this situation as it usually did- no good at all.

“Come on,” Ancel muttered. “Just- come _on!”_

“Easy,” Berenger said, but he was standing, _finally,_ and fumbling with his belt. Ancel didn’t have much time to catch his breath before Berenger was curling over him, kissing the side of his neck while he pushed inside with his cock.

Ancel groaned, spreading his legs wider to make it easier, arching his back to angle his hips up. It was so rushed and yet exactly what Ancel needed, the faint burn only making everything more real. It was perfect, even the rough laces of the jacket Berenger was still wearing rubbing against the bare skin of his back was perfect.

Berenger wasn’t _rough_ so much as- forceful. Steady. Somehow he managed to get that perfect angle on every thrust and Ancel was mindless with it. And then he felt Berenger’s hand, the one not covered in lube and spit, dragging up his side and under him, wrapping around his throat in a tender touch before tilting his face up to look into the mirror.

He gasped when he saw himself, lost to pleasure, and Berenger behind him- breathing harshly and _watching_ him like he couldn’t get enough.

“Look at you,” Berenger said roughly. “So perfect for me. You drive me crazy. This whole time- I’ve never wanted anything more. Not fame or fortune. Not dancing. Nothing- just you.”

“Oh fuck,” Ancel whimpered, shutting his eyes against the intensity of Berenger’s gaze. He couldn’t handle it for one more second, being _looked_ at like that. “You’re a monster,” he breathed out. “And I never knew.”

Berenger laughed and kissed his neck, dragging his teeth down Ancel’s skin and biting at his earlobe.

“Fuck, I’m close,” Ancel moaned. “I’m just- could you-”

“Yes,” Berenger said and moved his free hand down to Ancel’s cock, stroking firmly. He sped up and Ancel had to brace himself on the mirror to get some leverage, pushing back into every thrust. He’d had good sex before, but nothing like _this._ Nothing this wild and raw, where suddenly _who_ he was fucking mattered just as much, if not more, than how.

“That’s it,” Berenger said. _“Ancel-”_

Ancel came with a whimper, screwing his eyes shut as his body pulsed around Berenger still inside him, fucking him. All he could feel was the bliss of Berenger wrapped around him, holding him. Berenger finished soon after and they paused for a moment, still locked together as the world swam back into focus.

Berenger pressed a gentle kiss to the side of Ancel’s neck before pulling back and doing- something behind him. Ancel was distantly aware of Berenger throwing something away into the small bin under the dressing table. A condom- he’d worn a condom and Ancel hadn’t even thought to ask.

Slowly Ancel straightened up, turning around even as his shaking knees threatened to collapse. He felt wrecked as he stood in front of Berenger, fully dressed again now that he’d tucked his cock back into his pants. Ancel felt a bit ridiculous at his own nudity, not because Berenger was looking at him, but because he was still wearing his pointe shoes.

Suddenly that seemed hilarious, so Ancel laughed. Berenger’s eyes were soft as he leaned in to kiss him and Ancel laughed harder, pressing his hand over Berenger’s mouth and turning his face away.

“I don’t think so,” he managed through the giggles shaking his frame, “I know where that mouth has been.”

In retaliation Berenger licked his palm, and when Ancel jerked back in surprise Berenger stepped forward to take him in his arms, carrying him the few steps across the room to set him down on the couch. Berenger kissed his forehead before stepping into the small ensuite to clean up before he was bringing over a damp washcloth and wiping Ancel off too.

He was already kneeling on the floor, so he moved to unlace Ancel’s ballet shoes, working slowly and reverently like he was unwrapping a gift. Every so often he’d pause to stroke Ancel’s calves or kiss his thighs, making Ancel wonder what it would be like to fuck him again, in a real bed. What it would be like when they had all night.

They both startled at a sharp knocking on the door, Berenger shifting instinctively to hide Ancel from view with his own body even though no one had come in.

“Are you done in there Johnnie?” came Auguste’s gleeful shout. “We’ve got some sponsors here for the meet and greet-”

“I swear to god, Gus,” Berenger called back. “If you don’t leave right the fuck now-”

“When you’re ready then,” Auguste said, his laughter fading as he stepped away.

Berenger exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead to Ancel’s bare thigh. Ancel could only smile as he carded his fingers through Berenger’s hair.

“We should probably…” Ancel said.

“Yes,” Berenger said regretfully, standing.

Ancel knew he should probably put his costume back on, but at the moment that seemed like far too much work. He pulled on a white satin dressing gown instead, pausing to look in the mirror to check his makeup. It was a little smeared but not so badly that he needed to touch it up. He was still wearing the diamond circlet, glittering alluringly in his fiery hair.

“Maybe we should sneak out,” Berenger said, coming to stand behind him and setting his hands on Ancel’s waist. “I don’t want to share you. Especially when you look like this.”

“As the leads, isn’t it our job to promote De Vere to the best of our ability?”

Berenger groaned quietly in disappointment and Ancel turned in his arms, smiling as he brought their lips together for another kiss, that one slow and sensual.

“We’ll stay for a bit,” Ancel whispered. “And then you’ll take me home, won’t you? You promised I wouldn’t be able to walk straight and you haven’t quite delivered yet.”

Berenger simply smiled and moved to kiss his hands before stepping back so Ancel could put on his low-heeled slippers. They left the dressing room together to greet the company, the sponsors, the other fancy guests and audience members. 

The celebration of closing night was a whirlwind of laughter and champagne, gifts and flowers, but none of it was as good as the moment Ancel finally found himself naked in Berenger’s bed, with Berenger’s arms around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drawing can be found [HERE](https://barbitone.tumblr.com/post/190922269735/ko-fi-society6-commission-prices-vary-ask) on tumblr and [HERE](https://twitter.com/barbitoneart/status/1230323662055772161?s=20) on twitter :)


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

“...after Lazar Dicé, dancing Count Albrécht, was spirited away by paramedics at the end of the first act,” Ancel read out loud from the arts section of the newspaper, “the second act of De Vere’s Giselle was saved by the unexpected appearance of the illusive Vaslav Varenne-”

“Really?” Lazar asked indignantly as he rummaged through Berenger’s fridge for another beer. “That’s all they have to say about me and my tragic career ending injury?”

“Weren’t you going to retire after this season anyway?” Auguste asked mildly. He was sitting in one of the lounge chairs in Berenger’s living room, Kashel perched on the arm of the chair with her fingers teasing at his golden curls.

“Yes,” Lazar muttered. “But that’s not the  _ point.” _

“I’m sure there’s someone out there willing to do a tearful interview with you,” Ancel said, testy at the interruption. He was pacing restlessly in front of the glass doors leading out to the patio, where he had the best light for reading. “Can I keep going now?”

Lazar let out a non-commital grunt as he made his careful way over to one of the other lounge chairs, still not used to his crutches.

“Keep going,” Berenger said. He was laying on his side on the couch, shirtless while Lazar’s husband, Pallas, updated his tattoo. He’d refused to tell Ancel what it would be, no matter how many times he asked. Apparently this was some sort of  _ thing  _ they all did after the closing of every show- hang around Berenger’s apartment drinking beer while he got inked. Orlant was there too, and even Parsins. It seemed strange that Ancel would be included in Berenger’s inner circle for his little ritual- strange and wonderful.

“-long thought to be retired,” Ancel continued, looking back to the newspaper, “Vaslav Varenne danced the role of Count Albrécht to perfection. His undeniable chemistry with the lead- Ancel Sanpelier, resplendent as the diamond-studded Giselle- makes this reviewer wonder why Mr. Varenne wasn’t cast as the male lead from the start.

“When asked for a statement, the notoriously close-lipped director of the De Vere company, Mr. Berenger, declined to comment. Mr. Berenger can keep his secrets, though this reviewer wonders how he managed to get in touch with the mysterious Vaslav Varenne on such short notice and why the former star was so well-versed in the ballet’s distinctive choreography. Perhaps the two are clandestine lovers? But alas, for now that theory remains firmly in the realm of speculation."

Ancel lowered the paper in disbelief while Auguste snorted out a laugh. “Is this the arts section or the gossip pages?”

“They really can’t put two and two together, can they,” Ancel said incredulously.

“People see what they want to see,” Berenger said as Pallas finally finished and shut down his tattoo gun, setting it down on the coffee table before wiping at Berenger’s side with a soft cloth.

Ancel leaned over the back of the couch curiously to see- one more of the eagle’s feathers was filled in. It was a much simpler image than most of the others, and it was the only one with a touch of color- subtle but still there. A pair of green eyes, and above them- a diamond circlet.

Ancel stared until Pallas moved to cover up the fresh tattoo with a bandage, taping it into place. He startled when Berenger raised his hand to cover Ancel’s where he was gripping the couch tightly.

Ancel laughed, turning his hand so they were palm to palm. “Maybe I should get a tattoo too,” he teased.

“And mar all that lovely pale skin?” Berenger asked, raising his eyebrow. Ancel flushed and looked away as Berenger sat up, pulling on a tank top with a groan.

“Have you given thought to the next show?” Auguste asked.

“We could do La Bayadère,” Ancel said, imagining all the beautiful costumes he’d get to wear as an exotic temple dancer.

“Or La Sylphide,” Lazar ventured.

“Coppélia,” Kashel said, a twinkle in her eye. “Imagine how sweet our Ancel would look all dressed up like a dancing doll-”

“I was thinking we might capitalize on the press from Giselle,” Berenger said mildly, squeezing Ancel’s hand. “We could do an original production. Something more modern. I happen to know a fantastic composer.”

Parsins went pale. “Oh no,” he said.

“Didn’t you write a series of rather poignant vignettes based on ancient Greek myths?” Berenger asked.

“Johnnie,  _ no,” _ Parsins said. “I’m too old for a debut. Let’s just restage The Firebird, like you’ve always wanted-”

“Gus?” Berenger asked, deceptively calm. “What do you think?”

“I am but a humble rube,” Auguste said with a dramatic half bow, “who must do as his director commands.”

“Johnnie,” Parsins said in dismay. “Be reasonable! There’s no way to get everything ready by next season. A new ballet means all new choreography, staging-”

“Maybe,” Orlant said thoughtfully. He didn’t seem nearly as skeptical. “Putting together something completely fresh will take longer than a standard restaging. Maybe if we hired a third choreographer…”

“Ancel will help,” Berenger said.

“Ancel will  _ what?”  _ Ancel exclaimed.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice your lovely little improvisation at the end of act one,” Berenger said, tugging on Ancel’s hand to draw him closer before pulling him into his lap. “You’ve clearly got talent, so put it to good use.”

“That was just- a fluke,” Ancel said, flushing brightly.

“I want to do costume design,” Lazar announced.

“I’ll write the narrative,” Kashel said.

“I’ll sign the checks and take all the credit,” Auguste added with a laugh.

“So it’s settled,” Berenger said, just like that. “What shall we call it?” he added, looking into Ancel’s eyes.

Ancel flushed, looking down. “I don’t know,” he said. He thought of Berenger’s extensive literature collection, his shelf of Greek mythology. “The Abduction of Ganemede,” he ventured after a moment’s thought, hoping it didn’t sound stupid.

“Ahh,” Berenger said with a wide smile. “He was the loveliest born of the race of mortals,” he continued, his voice taking on a lyrical quality, “and therefore the gods caught him away to themselves, to be Zeus' wine-pourer, for the sake of his beauty, so he might be among the immortals.”

“And here I was,” Auguste said with a sigh, “thinking your days of quoting the Iliad at me were finally over.”

“Not just yet,” Berenger said, leaning up for a kiss while Ancel laughed and ran his fingers through Berenger’s hair.

“Get a room,” Lazar groaned and took another drink.

  
  


_ fin. _

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [barbitone](http://barbitone.tumblr.com/) and pillowfort also at [barbitone](https://www.pillowfort.io/barbitone)


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